


Spinning

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Character Death, Foster Care, Guardian-Ward Relationship, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Rimming, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Content, Teen Angst, Teenage Drama, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lottery exists to allow poor and struggling families to place their children in the care of wealthy patrons, who will provide for them until they come of age.</p><p>When medical bills leave the Watson family in trouble, seventeen-year-old John is assigned to the care of Sherlock Holmes, a man unlike anyone John has ever encountered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something's Taking Over Now

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. WE HAVE BEGUN.
> 
> First and foremost, this story is not about a mystery or solving cases. It is relationship-focused. The characters drive the plot. It will be about romance and lust, friendship, trust, and heartbreak. So if you're hoping I'll improve my abilities to write a good mystery or a deep and thought-provoking plot, wait for the next story. Hopefully. ...I'm really character driven. XD
> 
> Now frankly I am super uncertain about this story, but I love it, and I want to share it, so prepare for another "what the hell, here we go!" trip. GERONIMO.
> 
> Soundtrack for each chapter will be in the opening notes (except this time, as this is a long intro). A/N: Some songs are mood-setters, like I imagine them just playing in the background of movie scenes. Some are actually what the character is feeling, and could be considered dialogue supplement. Those will be marked with * for reference, if you want to get further into the boys' heads as you read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for Chapter 1:
> 
> -"Spinning" by Jack’s Mannequin [theme: story title based on this]  
> -"Like Whoa" by Aly & AJ [Sherlock POV]  
> -*"Dangerous" by Cascada [John POV]  
> -"Bad Things" by Jace Everett [Sherlock [POV]
> 
> Chapter one title from "Dangerous."

“...and in light of this most recent recession, rising unemployment rates among the lower and middle classes have prompted an increase in the number of applicants being accepted for the Social Services’ Youth Lottery, bringing us up to twelve children and adolescents per month being assigned to the financial and/or personal care of families and individuals whose economic standing makes them eligible to provide it. This month’s assignments will be announced early next week. The applicants who are accepted into the program will be placed in the lottery, and with luck, they will be assigned to the care of a wealthy family or individual until they come of age. Best wishes to the kids and their families being entered this week. Now, on to the weather...”

Sherlock Holmes tuned the broadcast out, staring through the smudged glass of his living room window at the lazy afternoon foot traffic on Baker Street. His violin hung loosely at his side, forgotten in his mounting frustration as he’d listened to the news bulletin about the lottery.

“Explain to me why it must be _my_ name, exactly?” he asked tersely, the fingers of his right hand flexing gently over the delicate shape of his bow.

Behind him, his brother spoke from the armchair opposite his own, watching his younger brother with the sharp focus he reserved for “serious” conversations such as this. His voice was dry, almost amused, but there was steel behind the words indicating that Sherlock would not be getting out of this. “Because, dear brother, between the two of us, you are the only one with the time or the means to look after a teenager and the chaos that it entails. Despite my personal endorsement of the lottery and my wish to support it, I do not have those luxuries. So it will be your name in next week’s match-up.”

Sherlock scowled, half-turning to give his brother a truly petulant look. “We don’t even properly count as upper class, we’ve just done well enough for ourselves--”

Mycroft cut him off, arching a scolding eyebrow. “ _I’ve_ done well enough for the both of us, and besides, that’s not the point; we are now well off enough to provide this assistance to a family in need, and it is our civil duty, therefore, to do so. In a way it’s a privilege.”

It was clear that Sherlock was running out of protests, but he was not going to agree without exhausting all of his options. His tone turned somewhat sardonic. “Come on, Mycroft, you of all people know that I am hardly the nurturing or role model type--what good would I be with a teenager?”

His brother smiled, raising one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “I know all too well how you are, but this is a legal obligation, and we are going to carry it out--and since there is only two of us to choose from, congratulations, you’re going to be a foster parent.”

There was an edge of defeat in Sherlock’s final attempt. “No one in their right mind is going to consent to place their child in my care, not with my history.”

Mycroft’s tone cooled just a little, his eyes flashing at the reminder of his younger brother’s sordid past. “Nobody _knows_ that history, Sherlock, and it is going to stay that way; I worked quite hard to rescue you from your addictions, and I am determined to see you do something useful with yourself.” He stood, straightening his jacket and tie and adopting his ‘I’ve won, hush now’ expression, which Sherlock had spent most of his life trying to avoid seeing. “If nothing else, you owe me, little brother, and so the bottom line is--your name is in the lottery next week, and you are being assigned the financial and possibly in-home care of an financially in-need child.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, reminding Mycroft again of the little boy who had despised losing arguments to his assertive older sibling. “Well, do I at least have any say in the age, or the gender?” There was a flash of panic in his eyes, tempting Mycroft to frighten him with the possibility of being responsible for a pubescent girl.

He shook the thought away with a small smirk. “It isn’t a poodle, for heaven’s sake...but yes,” he added, taking pity on his sibling. “I will indicate that it should be a boy, preferably above the age of 15 so that he will be close to the end of secondary, and nearly of legal age.”

There was still lingering panic and resentment in Sherlock eyes, but he knew when he was beaten. Groaning in exasperation, he nodded his concession, studiously ignoring Mycroft’s far-too-brotherly grin of victory.

* * *

The lottery office in the Social & Family Services building was a bland beige color, making John Watson feel washed out and dull as he sat in the uncomfortable blue chair by the wall, listening to his parents explain their sob story to a tired-looking but pleasant man called Mike Stamford. John had listened to them, staying up late at night, discussing whether or not this had to happen, and once they faced the fact that it did, he’d listened to them decide what needed to be said.

They had applied to place his name in the lottery when it was clear that his mother’s cancer was advancing rapidly, and they were losing the ability to handle both the steep medical expenses, and their son’s basic needs--even school supplies were becoming too much for them to cover.

Mike Stamford was studying his file intently, and distantly John was impressed that he could still dedicate so much focus to each case, when he must meet dozens of kids whose parents were desperately seeking help looking after their children. “I see here you have one other--an older child, a daughter called Harriet?”

John’s father replied, his voice more weary and strained than John had ever heard it. “Yes, we do--Harry’s eighteen already, she’s living in an apartment with a friend until she begins university in the fall. She’s on scholarship for that,” he added, a little stronger, pride in his voice. John almost smiled. He was proud of his sister, too, and he wished she still lived with them, though he knew they couldn’t afford it. Besides, he thought with a private grin, Harry was happier like this--their parents didn’t know it, but her new roommate was, in fact, her bedmate. Harry and Clara were quite happy living together.

He refocused on the conversation as Mike Stamford shut the file, sitting back and offering the Watsons a firm smile. “Well, it’s all in order, and meets all the requirements and then some,” he said in a kind voice. “John’s name will be in the lottery this very next week, and assuming he wins on this first round, I’ll have his assignment for you within the day.” He gave John a friendly smile, but the teen didn’t have the energy to return it. “He’s seventeen already, which is actually quite good--it’s easier to assigned older teenagers, more people request that age group. Looking at your information, I would also say that in your circumstances, in-home placement would be better--is that alright?”

John repressed a frustrated sigh as his parents agreed promptly. That was that, then. In a week’s time, he could be moving in with a stranger. He knew it was for the best, and he was ready--more or less--but it didn’t make it any less daunting.

He spent the following week trying to be as low-maintenance and kind to his parents as possible, not wanting them to feel guilty about sending him away. He understood why they had to--and watching his mother weaken visibly every day, some part of him was almost grateful that he had the impending escape route. The thought made his stomach roll with loathing for his own selfishness.

He was helping his mother prepare dinner one night--and pretending valiantly not to notice how drained and frail she seemed, the sight of which was tearing his heart up--when the phone rang.

“Watson residence--this is John.” His mother had taught him how to answer a phone politely when he was seven, and a decade had not dulled his instinct to obey her about it.

“John, hello!” Mike Stamford had a constantly cheerful sort of voice, and John couldn’t help but smile at the social worker’s good nature. “Good news, mate. Did you watch the lotto today?”

A sense of finality, and a buzzing sort of anticipation settled under John’s skin. “No,” he admitted, cradling the handpiece against his shoulder as he caught a heavy dish out of his mother’s hands. “Couldn’t bring myself to, honestly. Was I was picked?”

“Indeed you were!” Mike sounded so pleased for him, John couldn’t help but feel an odd sizzle of excitement, even though he was frankly intimidated by the whole idea. “You were picked, and you’ve been assigned to one of our individual patrons. His name actually only just got entered, which is impressive--he’s got family in government, they’re usually the first to take on lotto kids. You’ve been assigned to Sherlock Holmes, single bloke in his late 20’s, he lives right in the city. Good for school prospects! I can pick you up in the morning, if you’re ready? I’ll take you over and get you settled. Sound alright?”

Anticipation and anxiety crashed and swirled in John’s stomach, but it was too late to run away. “Yeah,” he got out, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, sounds good, Mr. Stamford.”

“Oh, you can call me Mike! Right, see you tomorrow, John. Looking forward to it.” The line clicked, and John hung up, then turned to find his mother gazing at him expectantly.

“You were placed?” she asked softly, and there was such real hope in her eyes, mingled with the sadness of knowing her son had to leave home.

John nodded, crossing to hug her, feeling her arms closing delicately around his middle, and he wished desperately he could find a magic cure, and save her all this pain and distress. “Mr. Stamford will come get me in the morning.”

“Oh, that soon,” she said a little breathlessly, and John drew back, knowing he had to keep her calm, not stress her already-fatigued body out more than necessary. “Call your father in, we’ll phone Harry for a chat, have a--a nice little going-away party, just us.”

Dinner was awkward, heavy with the knowledge that the family was splitting apart just a little bit more, and watching his parents with their tired smiles and worried eyes, John felt somehow as if he was already gone.

* * *

Around noon, Mike arrived in a government vehicle to collect John and his limited possessions, and they drove through the city until they reached Baker St, stopping in front of a cafe called Speedy’s. To the left of the cheery little deli, there was a door marked 221 in gold letters. John waited, clutching his few bags nervously, while Mike rang the bell.

The woman who opened the door was pleasant and chatty in a maiden-aunt sort of way, and she was quite delighted when Mike introduced her to John and informed her that he was a lotto winner being placed with Mr. Holmes. Immediately she wrapped him up in a hug, startling him with her enthusiasm.

“That’s lovely, John, simply lovely!” she said, smiling brightly at him. John couldn’t help but return the expression, relieved there was something of a maternal figure present. “Sherlock is wonderful, he really is--though he pretends he’s not, he likes to growl and pout, but don’t let that put you off! You’ll be just fine, and I’m just down here, in A. You’re up the stairs in B, but if you need me, always feel free to pop by! Go on up, don’t worry, I know he’s home. He just never answers the bloody door bell.”

They made their way up the flight of steps, John lagging a little behind as Mike huffed his way up the last few steps and rapped lightly on the door. Behind the dark wooden barrier, a low voice called out, "Come in."

When John walked into the living room of 221B, the man seated in a worn black armchair glanced up from the violin he was tuning, fixing John with a firm stare. They studied each other thoroughly as he rose, placing the violin and its bow inside the case at his feet. Turning back to face them, he seemed to size John up in one long look, and some of the initial hardness faded from his expression.

John, for his part, couldn't quite help the small shiver of excitement that rippled through him. His new guardian--if this was, in fact, Sherlock Holmes--was an extremely attractive man, perhaps unconventionally, but undeniably. His pale blue eyes sliced through John like a laser, and he hoped it wasn't blatantly obvious that he suddenly wanted very much to trace his fingertips over those impossibly sharp cheekbones. When Mike had told him “late 20s,” it hadn’t meant much to him, but now he was beginning to think that this arrangement might not be too awful.

Setting down his duffle bag and backpack, John stepped forward and stretched out his hand, wanting to make a good first impression. “Hello,” he said, opting for a professional tone, as if he were interviewing for a position. “I’m John Watson.”

The man--presumably Sherlock--accepted his handshake, his grip firm. He looked John over once more, then smirked as he released his hand. “Your father’s a retired soldier, and he taught you to carry yourself with military precision--you’re quite proud of him. You’re very protective of your mother, and worry about her constantly; you’re more anxious than you’ve admitted to her about her illness. Sorry,” he added, at John’s expression. “I understand that that may be a sensitive point. She’s fortunate to have a son who cares so deeply.”

John’s brain was struggling to play catch-up, but after a moment he found his voice. “Uh, that’s not--I mean, that’s all true, but they didn’t record all of that in my file, did they?”

Sherlock snorted. “No, I can read it all in your face and body language. You _do_ move as if you had military training--unlikely, at your age, so your father taught you. And you do it proudly, not mechanically, so you were pleased to learn from him. You admire him. And you wear a woman’s wedding band on your finger,” he went on, nodding at the thin silver band, engraved with vine decals, that John wore on his right small finger. “It’s clearly old, an outdated style, but you keep your hand curled as if to protect it. She gave it to you for safe keeping, and you cherish it--and her.”

Despite the reminder of his mother’s flagging health, John couldn’t help but start to grin at Sherlock’s spot-on deductions. “Yes. Anything else?”

Something bright and manic flashed in the other man’s pale blue eyes, and he drew himself up a little, gaze darting to John’s bags on the floor and then back to his face. “You have a sister you love dearly, though it’s been quite a while since you were really close--the backpack,” he added, when John gave a small start. “It’s a well-loved military hand-me-down from your father, incidentally--but back to your sister, there’s a badly frayed athletics patch on it from a secondary school lacrosse team, which I’d consider believing was yours except that it says ‘ladies’ lacrosse, and has ‘Harriet’ stitched on it. You kept it on there because you love her, but it’s at least five years old.”

A stunned, delighted laugh broke from John. “That was amazing,” he said, staring at his new guardian with clear delight.

Sherlock shrugged modestly, but there was pleasure in his eyes at the praise, and a cocky little grin twitched up the corners of his mouth. “It’s easy,” he replied, sliding his hands into his pockets. “All of the information is there to be seen--you just have to know how to interpret it.”

Behind John, there was a soft throat-clearing, startling them both when they realized that Mike Stamford was still hovering awkwardly by the door. “You two will be alright, then?” he asked, looking sheepish about interrupting their exchange.

Surprised, John nodded at him, and Sherlock replied, “Yes, we’re fine. Thank you, Mike.”

As the social worker opened the door, John called out, “And thank you, Mr. Stamford, thanks for dropping me off.” Trading a smile with Mike, he did not notice the way Sherlock studied him closely, curiosity brightening his verdigris eyes.

Left alone, there was only a moment of uncertainty before Sherlock broke the silence. “I’ll show you the flat, then?” he offered, and John nodded, grabbing his bags as Sherlock led the way. Up one more flight of stairs there was a single bedroom, which Sherlock indicated would be his. John nodded, depositing his things on the steps to unpack later, and turned to follow the taller man back into the main flat.

After he’d seen the whole of the small home--living room, kitchen, and loo--Sherlock handed him a key ring with two small keys on it, one for the front door and one for the flat. Looking around the cozy little interior, John asked, “Where do you sleep, then? You said mine was the second bedroom.”

Sherlock nodded at the closed door just past the loo, at the end of the short hallway. “I’m through there, but half the time I don’t bother with it. I crash on the sofa most of the time, so don’t be startled if you find me there often.”

John couldn’t help his grin, deciding firmly that he quite liked his eccentric new guardian. “Well, that depends. Are you a heavy sleeper? Or a snorer?”

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise, and John wondered if the older man even recognized when he was being flirted with. Either way, he could feel the ice breaking as he teased the older man.

Although John couldn’t read him well enough to know it, Sherlock was highly aware that the teen was flirting. It threw him for a spin, unsure how to appropriately respond, and wondering if Mycroft had had any concerns for such a possibility when he’d agreed to a request a boy in his late teens. It did not help that he found John quite pleasant, to his own surprise--and if he was being objective, the boy was fairly attractive. He blinked that idea away hurriedly, settling for a joking tone to redirect his own thoughts. “I won’t mind if you wake me coming through,” he assured John, unable to keep from smiling back. “And no one’s ever told me if I snore, so please do let me know.”

John’s laughter was definitely something he could get used to hearing.

* * *

Once John had unpacked and made a little progress toward making the upstairs bedroom his own, he returned downstairs to find Sherlock seated at the kitchen table, examining two pieces of what appeared to be wood samples.

Crossing the room to lean back against the counter beside the sink, he drummed his fingers absently against the edge of the tiled surface. “So,” he began, and Sherlock lowered the wood samples to look at him expectantly. John smiled a little shyly. “Do you, ah, have any household rules or anything you need me to know? Things like, I dunno, watching telly too late or something.”

Sherlock shrugged, setting one piece down and selecting another. “I don’t mind the television or the radio being on, so long as Mrs. Hudson doesn’t get noise complaints. My only item is that I will almost always have experiments running, usually here in the kitchen but occasionally in the living room, and I’d prefer those not be disturbed.”

Curiosity piqued, John walked around the table to lean over Sherlock’s shoulder, realizing now that there were different kinds of burn patterns on the wood samples, and from Sherlock’s notes, he was analyzing the different severities of damage on various types of wood.

“That’s really cool,” he commented, then pointed at one of the blackened panels. “Is that from a blowtorch?”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock affirmed, smiling at John’s genuine interest. He glanced up at the teenager, and for a moment, their faces were only inches apart, startling him.

John smiled, slowly, then moved back carefully, feeling the tension remain. Looking back down at his notes, Sherlock exhaled shakily, wondering what exactly he had gotten himself into. He remained still, senses focused outward, listening as John moved to the squishy red armchair in the living room, where he began sifting through the stack of medical textbooks Sherlock had left on the floor beneath the end table.

* * *

The only contents of the refrigerator, John discovered that evening, was some spoiled milk and what looked like moldy jam. Wrinkling his nose, he discarded both, and asked Sherlock if he could get some groceries. Without looking up from his laptop, his guardian dug his card out of his wallet and offered it, informing him that there was a shop on the corner if he turned left out of the flat.

Before John left, Sherlock called out once more. “It’s too late to bother with any cooking tonight--when you’re back, if you like, we can call for take-away, or I can show you a nearby restaurant I’m fond of.”

John paused, hand on the doorknob, and smiled. “Sure, eating out sounds nice,” he replied. “I’ll be quick.”

Once the refrigerator was stocked with a basic selection of quick meal options, Sherlock grabbed his coat and led the way to Angelo’s, a small Italian place a few blocks over. The owner was a big, cheerful man who seemed extremely fond of Sherlock, and gave them a cozy window booth that John had to smile at; he wondered if Angelo had mistaken his age and perceived this as a date.

Over some of the best pasta he’d ever eaten, John studied Sherlock, finally deciding that there was no harm in being direct as he got to know his new guardian.

“I noticed that there’s really nothing of a feminine or outside touch in your flat...it’s very personal, like it’s just been you in there for a long while. Do you ever have friends over? Or, do you have, you know, a girlfriend, or anything?”

Hardly looking up from his dinner, Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug, and his tone was dismissive. “Not many friends, no...none, actually, more just colleagues who don’t do house calls. And a brother who occasionally gets fed up and pays someone to clean the place up. Mrs. Hudson, usually.” He chuckled drily. “She’s the closest to a feminine influence I’ll allow.”

“Ah,” John said, processing that and attempting to see if he’d gotten the answer he was looking for. Not really. “So...no girlfriend, then?”

Surprise flickered in Sherlock’s eyes, and he glanced up at John as if just realizing that that was what he had asked. “Girlfriend, no, not really my area.”

“Oh.” John’s eyes widened slightly, and a mischievous smile crossed his face at Sherlock’s slightly wary expression. “Uh, boyfriend, then? Which is fine.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock replied, one eyebrow arching.

Disappointment sparked in John’s belly, but he kept his tone the same. “So you’ve got a boyfriend?” He wondered if they knew Sherlock now had a teenage boy living in his home.

“No.” Sherlock’s tone was edged with something that sounded like amusement, and John suddenly realized that he was getting a bit of teasing payback for the earlier moment in the kitchen.

“Oh. Okay,” he responded, trying to mask his relief as friendly indifference.

Sherlock ate a little more, than paused, glancing up at John with a look like he’d just realized something. “And you?” he asked, his tone light. “Shall I expect to find socks on the door on occasion?”

John snorted at the old reference, and coughed as he choked a little on his water. Laughing, he wheezed out, “No. No, I won’t be bringing any boys home anytime soon, I promise.” His gaze flicked up to meet Sherlock’s, a hint of challenge in his blue eyes, because he couldn’t assume that Sherlock had guessed his sexuality already--and John had only ever known how to come out to people using humor and indirect phrasing. The look in his eyes was defiant, as if he were reminding Sherlock, _You did just agree that it’s fine_.

Sherlock nodded, no consternation or disappointment in his face--did he also look a little relieved? John’s stomach squirmed, wondering--and took a sip of his own water. “Just let me know if that ever changes, so I can be out of your way,” he said simply, and John couldn’t help feeling impressed. There was no parental scolding or lecturing, just acceptance of his right to make his own choices.

He raised an eyebrow. “Most adults aren’t that comfortable about a teenager being openly out.” He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was certainly surprised by Sherlock’s blase reaction to his orientation, and his flirting. He wished he could ask directly if Sherlock was gay as well, but suddenly that felt as if it would be giving too much away.

Sherlock met his eyes, smiling at him sincerely, and resumed eating. His tone was warm when he replied. “It’s _all_ fine."


	2. Take Everything That I Know You'll Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You two are certainly getting along quite well.”
> 
> Chapter title comes from "I Wanna" by The All American Rejects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for chapter two:
> 
> -"Animal" by Neon Trees [both POV]  
> -"I Wanna" by All American Rejects [John POV]  
> -"Sweet Dream by Beyonce [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Is It You" by Cassie [John POV]

June bled into July, and with school not beginning until September, the majority of John’s time was spent in the flat with Sherlock. They both seemed to find it easier than either had anticipated to coexist, and a pattern developed which quickly became comfortable routine.

John adapted to his guardian’s unusual behaviors, and to Sherlock’s clear surprise and relief, had no objections to any of them. He didn’t care if he could hear Sherlock up half the night--or all of it--and if he emerged from his morning showers to find Sherlock’s bedroom door closed, he would keep quiet to allow a few hours of rest before knocking softly, drawing Sherlock back out into daylight. This stopped irritating Sherlock once he realized that it kept him on some semblance of a functional sleep schedule, and once it was clear that John would have tea and breakfast made in the kitchen, for the days he was actually willing to slow his mind down and eat.

John was not idle with his summer freedom, instead using the time to wander through the expansive and eccentric collection of textbooks, biographies, manuals, and memoirs which cluttered Sherlock’s bookshelves. Upon noticing his particular interest in the medical texts, Sherlock renewed an old subscription for several science journals that he had neglected, providing more reading material for the teenager.

And the more John read, the more he was able to follow when Sherlock would begin commentating his experiments aloud, a habit he’d developed from living alone, and one that John saw no reason to break him of. This proved highly enjoyable for them both--especially as John begin to comprehend more, and was able to ask questions and make observations of his own. Eventually Sherlock was encouraging his help in small capacities on his simpler projects. For once it did not anger Sherlock to have someone less skilled poking into his work; he found John’s enthusiasm engaging and his companionship pleasant (even if his participation did lead to a permanent blowtorch burn on the kitchen table, and a discolored patch on the wall where an acidic mix had reacted too strongly).

It was a requirement of the lottery program that Social Services make check-in visits every other week, to be certain that the placement was working well for both the guardian and ward. Much to both Sherlock and John’s relief, however, Mycroft had intervened and made arrangements to handle their check-ins himself, merely submitting a record to Mike Stamford that all was well. This suited them perfectly, as it felt much less bizarre to have Sherlock’s own brother stop by for occasional suppers than to interrupt their routine with a formal interview.

On one such visit, Mycroft moved to sit down in the living room, then stopped, staring into the kitchen with a look of bemusement on his face. “I’ve never seen that kitchen stocked to accommodate a fully-functional human being before,” he observed, giving John a wry smile where the teen sat in Sherlock’s armchair, a copy of the European Medical Journal closed on his lap. “Let alone enough to provide for two.”

John grinned, standing to walk into the kitchen and pour himself a cup of tea. He raised one in offering to Mycroft, who inclined his head gratefully. “It makes me feel useful,” John answered, reheating the water. “Like my own version of paying some of the rent--you know, contributing to the household, as an adult.” There was a faint edge in his voice, as if it was important that it be understood he was not a child.

Sinking into the vacated armchair, Mycroft chuckled drily. “That’s fine, as long as Sherlock isn’t actually _making_ you do it.”

As he spoke, Sherlock emerged from his room, buttoning the cuffs of his jacket. At his brother’s words he snorted. “I couldn’t if I tried. John can be more stubborn than I am.” He smirked at the teenager as he passed him, and John laughed and kicked at him playfully.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he shot back, and the two shared an easy grin.

Mycroft’s icy blue gaze tracked the exchange between them closely, and a thoughtful look flickered across his face before it turned blank again. “Well, you two are getting along splendidly, then,” he commented, then nodded pointedly at John. “I’ll come back by next week with brochures for the local secondary schools, so you can choose the one you think will suit you best. Alright?”

School hadn’t crossed John’s mind in days, and the reminder gave him pause. He shot a glance at Sherlock. His guardian appeared to have become fixated on the experiment they had moved to the counter to protect it from their supper, but his eyes were not moving over the notes he seemed to be staring at. John swallowed, then turned back to Mycroft with a quick smile.

“Sounds great.”

* * *

There were several possible schools that accommodated lottery students, but when Mycroft returned a few days later with the brochures, John indicated that he had no preference, asking that Mycroft simply select the one with a good rugby team. Sherlock teased him for it, but John had always loved sports, and knew he’d enjoy the exertion, as well as the social circle he’d no doubt build through a team activity.

The paperwork went through quickly, and in late July John returned from collecting the post with his notice of admission.

“I need to pick up some school supplies,” he told Sherlock absently, setting the rest of the mail near the older man’s hand. Sherlock did not shift his focus from the slide he was analyzing under his microscope, merely grunting in acknowledgement.

Smirking at his distracted guardian, John reached across his chest and slid one hand into Sherlock’s inside jacket pocket, slipping his wallet free and grabbing his card. “I’ll be quick,” he said, turning back toward the door. Sherlock nodded vaguely, unconcerned by both the impromptu mini-grope and by John using his card.

It was with only three weeks until school resumed that John finally found himself getting a little cabin fever from the endless hours spent in the close quarters of the flat; even helping Sherlock with his experiments didn’t pass enough of the time for him to feel justified being cooped up indoors so much.

Which was why, on a rare sunny afternoon, he tugged his jacket on and very gently eased the notepad out of Sherlock’s hands. “You need to get out more, you know,” he said lightly, smiling as Sherlock frowned at his empty hands. “Get some fresh air, away from the chemicals and mold samples. I promise they’ll still be here in an hour.”

Sherlock snorted, adopting a put-upon expression, but he allowed John to manhandle him to his feet and push his arms into his handsome blue Belstaff coat. It was John’s favorite thing of Sherlock’s; he couldn’t help but stare when the older man wore it, which was why Sherlock tended to wear it as often as he could--though he pretended not to notice his ward’s appreciative gaze. “They’ll be gone if Mrs. Hudson finds them,” he grumbled, but John could hear the smile in his voice, so he waved the comment away and guided Sherlock out the door.

John’s push for more fresh air led to regular walks in the evenings, and while Sherlock continued his protests the first few times, there was no denying the pleasure he found from strolling through the park and talking with John. Sometimes they discussed his experiments, and the satisfaction of getting the desired results versus the intrigue and further inquiries that emerged from unexpected conclusions. Sometimes it was debating the merits and flaws of the football matches and the soap operas John so enjoyed tormenting his guardian by watching, the discussion of which ended when Sherlock gave up trying to understand why John liked any of it, and the teenager promised to save his crap telly for when Sherlock was asleep or not working.

One night Sherlock asked John to describe why he enjoyed rugby, specifically, and the teenager launched into explaining the pleasures of hard athleticism, and knowing the strength and power of his own body.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it’d be my thing,” he acknowledged, rubbing his hands in the cooling evening air as they walked. “I mean, I am well built for it--but I know I seem more bookish when I’m with you. Honestly, I love both. I don’t want to be a professional player, far from it...I think I’d really like being a doctor, or maybe a teacher. Rugby is just a good way to stay busy, and to make friends while I’m stuck in school.”

Sherlock considered his young friend in the fading daylight, then frowned as a thought crossed his mind. “Would you ever consider following in your father’s steps?” he asked, inwardly shuddering at the idea of John serving in the military. He did not like the thought of the bright and decent young man at his side being in a war.

John wrinkled his nose, smiling slightly; he could hear the anxiety in Sherlock’s voice, and felt rather touched by his concern. “I am immensely proud of my dad,” he said thoughtfully. “But if I ever enlisted--which I don’t think I will, but _if_ \--it would be as an army doctor. Hm. I do think medicine’s my first choice. I could help adults as well as kids, then.”

The intensity and focus with which John contemplated his own future made Sherlock smile, pleased that John had real ambitions that he wished to pursue.

There was a beep of an incoming text from John’s coat pocket, and he fished it out to squint at the screen in the hazy light of dusk.

“It’s from my dad,” he said quietly, and Sherlock heard the unease that trickled into his voice. “Um...my mum had a fainting spell. She’s in the hospital again, for a week or two, he thinks. Dad wants to know if I can visit her soon...”

He looked up at Sherlock, something lost and scared in his eyes that made Sherlock want to wrap an arm around him and shield him from his pain, and from the impending loss of a parent.

“We could go this weekend,” he offered, reaching up to lay a hopefully comforting hand on John’s shoulder.

John’s eyes brightened slightly, and he leaned marginally into Sherlock’s touch. “You’ll come with me?”

Sherlock was surprised; he hadn’t really thought of the meaning when he said ‘we,’ and he had not expected John to want him along, but the teen’s relief was visible. He swallowed, giving John a firm smile. “Yes, of course, if you want me there.”

John nodded, then glanced around with sudden weariness. “Could we get something to eat?” he asked softly, and Sherlock smiled gently, knowing what comfort food John would pick. He nodded, turning to follow the teenager back up the footpath toward Angelo’s.

Seated in their usual booth--sans the candles; it seems Angelo had finally realized the age gap between his favorite customers--the two ate in companionable silence. Eventually there was another tone signaling an incoming text, this time from Sherlock’s mobile. Glancing at it, he sighed, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“Mycroft,” he answered the questioning glance John gave him. “There needs to be one more formal check-in before you start school, so he’ll come by for dinner tomorrow.” He envisioned their refrigerator in his head, and chuckled drily. “Guess we’ll need some groceries. I think we’re inadequately stocked for your version of entertaining company.”

John smiled back, though there was lingering sorrow in his eyes. “Guess it is formal, since it’s for Social Services. It just feels like a family dinner when Mycroft comes over.” He paused, his gaze dropping, and he pushed his pasta around on his plate. “It’s strange...I’d honestly kind of forgotten that this is a legal arrangement. I’ve gotten so used to living with you.”

When he looked back up, Sherlock smiled at him warmly, and the teenager returned the expression after a few seconds. There was something more there, though, something masked in the younger man’s eyes, a shadow of something needy and wanting and dangerous. Sherlock kept his smile firmly in place, but he had to look back at his plate, had to hide his eyes, lest John see the same look mirrored in his own face.

* * *

Mycroft arrived the next evening to find a small feast laid out, as John had gone shopping that morning and spent his day puttering around the kitchen, testing different recipes and ideas for his own amusement. Sherlock had eventually retreated to the bedroom to change out of his pajamas, leaving John to greet the older Holmes brother.

Mycroft chuckled when he saw the spread. “You didn’t need to go to such trouble, John,” he said fondly, hanging his jacket by the door. “I’m more of family than company.”

John returned his smile, offering him a glass of the wine Sherlock had consented to leave his experiments to collect, grumbling as he’d gone. He’d chosen one that his brother wouldn’t be a snob over, and Mycroft hummed appreciately as he sipped it. John crossed the kitchen to rap lightly on Sherlock’s door, laughing at the petulant mumble from within. “Come on, you, supper’s done,” he said, returning to the stove.

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom after a moment, nodding in greeting at his sibling. He paused en route to tidy up his work--John had finally agreed not to mess with active experiments, even if they were in his way--and rested one hand affectionately on John’s shoulder as the teenager checked on his meal. John glanced at him sideways, giving him a radiant smile.

Observing the interaction between them, Mycroft fixed a steady stare on his younger brother, arching his eyebrows. Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened slightly, acknowledging the unspoken message, and glanced around the kitchen.

“John,” he said warmly, and the teen looked at him expectantly as he switched the stovetop burner off. “Would you mind running back to the corner shop and grabbing a box of tea? We’re out of the brand Mycroft prefers, I’m sure we’d all like a cup after supper.”

“Sure, of course,” John said amiably, accepting the card Sherlock held out and giving Mycroft an apologetic grin before he grabbed his jacket and slipped out the front door.

The brothers retreated to the living room, where Sherlock sank into his armchair and waited. Mycroft paced in front of him for a few moments, both men studying one another silently. Eventually the tension broke.

“I see you’re eating properly, for once,” Mycroft commented, and there was no unkindness in the words, merely polite observation of a fact. Sherlock inclined his head, sighing slightly, and waved his hand vaguely toward the meal on the kitchen table.

“John cooks enough for two--three, even, to keep leftovers in the fridge. I suppose I don’t mind eating when he goes out of his way to leave it for me...outside the bedroom, near my computer, sometimes in the microwave.” He half-smiled, remembering the times he’d ignored the food left near his hands, only to glance up later and find it replaced with a note saying John rewarmed it and it was waiting for when he was ready to eat. The teenager took far too much care of him.

Mycroft continued to gaze intently at his brother, his gaze searching, but Sherlock was unforthcoming. Finally he settled on stating delicately, “You two are certainly getting along quite well.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to raise one brow, in polite refusal to answer the roundabout questions. At last Mycroft exhaled, facing his brother directly, and asked pointedly, “Should I be concerned?”

A scowl darkened Sherlock’s face, and he rubbed a hand irritably over his jaw. “Nothing wrong is going on, Mycroft,” he said tartly. “I wouldn’t--I won’t cross that line.”

Mycroft looked about to reply, but the downstairs door slammed, and footsteps thudded up the steps as John returned. Sherlock stood to greet him, giving his brother a light nudge as he passed him, his expression indicative that the discussion would not be resumed. The elder Holmes said nothing, merely thinning his lips before turning to thank John courteously for fetching the tea.

As the three men sat around the supper table, Mycroft engaged John in conversation about what he was anticipating as he prepared for school.

“You can of course treat Baker Street the way you would have your own home--feel free to invite your classmates and friends over here, build a good strong social group to spend your time with. Are you looking forward to joining your rugby team?”

John grinned at Mycroft even as he handed Sherlock the salt, giving him a fond look as his guardian closed his mouth before he’d gotten the request out. “I am, yeah,” he said enthusiastically. “My old school didn’t actually have a proper team--it was just me and some lads who’d go out on the field and kick a football around. It’ll be nice to have something real.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft took another sip of wine, glancing at his brother, but Sherlock had nothing to contribute, his eyes on his plate as he ate in silence. The elder Holmes refocused on John, noting when the teenager shot Sherlock a worried look over their food. “Well, I have no doubt you will enjoy your academics, and athletics, immensely. There are several lottery students attending the school--perhaps you can have them over for supper sometime.”

“That’d be fun,” John agreed, giving Sherlock a questioning look. His guardian glanced up and smiled at him, nodding in affirmation, but there was something reserved in his gaze.

He understood that Mycroft was primarily being supportive and encouraging to John, preparing him for the adjustment of attending school as a lottery ward, but there was more to it than just that; his brother was warning him off. He could not keep John to himself. He needed to let his ward live his own life, outside of 221B and beyond Sherlock.

* * *

Mrs. Watson was being cared for in a small, private section of the hospital, with each patient in a private room where their families could stay with them. There were flowers on the tables and window sills, and soft classical music came from a PA system overhead as John and Sherlock walked down the hallway to her room.

John’s heart constricted as he entered, seeing his mother so pale and fragile as she slept in the sterile bed, and he struggled to pretend he couldn’t see the tear tracks left on his father’s face as the older man turned to greet him with a hug.

Shifting back, he shrugged his right arm toward Sherlock in an awkward gesture. “Dad, this is Sherlock, my...my guardian.”

He supposed it might have been comical in lighter circumstances, introducing his parents--who had always been perfectly good to him--to the man who was now “raising” him. But there was no laughter as Mr. Watson accepted Sherlock’s handshake, giving him a firm but tired smile. “Thank you,” he murmured, and John wondered how much weakness and sadness his parents had been forced to suppress when he had been living with them.

Sherlock’s face was shadowed, and it was only because John knew him so well that he could detect the discomfort and sorrow in his friend’s expression, seeing the Watson family in such distress. Nodding politely to John’s father, Sherlock turned to him with an apologetic look, clasping his shoulder gently before he slipped from the room. John swallowed down the lump he felt seeing him walk away, knowing that this wasn’t a time to share with Sherlock, no matter how much he wanted to.

It was clear that his mother was dying, slowly, and John felt his lungs constrict, and a fist close around his heart as he stood beside her, barely able to make himself take her hand. His father placed an arm over his shoulders, and the Watson men stood in silence together, no words for the grief they shared.

Footsteps startled John into looking up as Harry entered, looking worn out and ill. She sank into the plastic chair beside the bed, taking their mother’s other hand and gazing at her face in silent sorrow.

“You okay?” John asked her quietly, and when she looked at him, he felt as if he’d swallowed a stone at the deadness in her eyes. His father released him, crossing around the bed to stand by Harry, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Only John saw her flinch under the weight of it.

When the silence became too much, knowing that his mother would sleep for a while longer, John turned and slipped from the room, needing Sherlock. It scared him, knowing that what drove him from the room was not grief over his mother’s condition or unease about Harry, but rather that urge to be in the other man’s presence. He swiped away a tear on his cheek, unsure how to process the emotions swirling through him.

He found his guardian around the corner, staring at the coffee machine with dislike as he swirled cream into a cup of what looked like dark brown sludge. John joined him, smiling as Sherlock shook his head in defeat and took a sip, wrinkling his nose at the taste.

“You’ve spoiled me,” he told the teen drily. “I’d forgotten that not everyone makes decent coffee.”

A weak laugh slipped from John, slightly alleviating the dull ache that still pounded in his heart. He took the cup from Sherlock’s hands, dropping it dismissively into the bin as he turned to the older man, his need spelled clearly across his face. Without hesitation, Sherlock opened his arms, and John sank against him gratefully.

There was nothing strange or uncomfortable about the embrace, despite the fact that they’d never actually hugged properly. John pressed his face into the soft blue fabric of the Belstaff, inhaling the faint scent of tobacco and chemicals and Dove soap that belonged to Sherlock. A hand covered in a leather glove came up to rest on his back, rubbing gently through the thick cotton of his jacket.

Sherlock was still holding him when someone stumbled into the hallway behind them a few moments later, and John glanced back in surprise to find Harry straightening up, eyeing them critically. He turned to face his sister, his misery coming back full-force as he realized at last what had seemed so off; Harry was badly hungover.

Discomfort pinched his voice, making him sound much more terse than he’d intended as he asked hoarsely, “Where’s--how’s Clara?” He knew he shouldn’t bait Harry, not if she was drinking again, but it stung to know that she hadn’t kept her promise to her girlfriend--and to him--that she’d clean up her act.

Harry made a face, her hands spasming slightly at her side, then shifted her stare to Sherlock, who still had one hand resting in gentle reassurance on John’s back. Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You two have gotten cozy pretty quick,” she said, too snide to be taken as anything but insinuating.

John flushed, anger at his sister’s attitude making him stiffen, and his unhappiness elevated as Sherlock misinterpreted his tension and stepped away, no longer touching him. The loss of contact almost physically hurt him.

“Harry, why are you drinking again?” he asked, his voice soft to avoid their father hearing him. The less stress he could inflict on their parents, the better.

His sister ignored his question, stepping forward to grab his arm tightly. As she pulled him back around the corner, he glanced back at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow as if to ask, _Want me to stop her_? Sighing, John shook his head, waving a hand in apology.

In the next hallway Harry rounded on him, her expression darkening as she stared him down. “Be careful, Johnny,” she said, poking a finger into his chest. “It’s never a good idea to fall for someone older than you.”

“That’s not--” John started to protest, his blush deepening, but Harry cut him off with a wave.

“I saw how he was looking at you,” she insisted. “I’m not worried about you getting hurt or rejected, not when he had that look in his eyes, but you could get busted. If you’re caught--”

“Nothing’s going on!” Embarrassment and anger made John’s voice sharp. He hated being transparent to his sister, especially when she’d been drinking--did that mean that Sherlock could see it too, written plainly on his face? He had to know, he could see everything, and John knew he was shit at locking his feelings hidden.

“It isn’t like that,” he tried again, sounding weak even to himself.

Harry just looked at him, lips pursed, and he scowled, turning on his heel to march back around the corner to Sherlock.

“Can we go home?” he asked tiredly. Sherlock gave him a worried look, glancing up at where John supposed Harry was probably standing at the corner watching them. But he said nothing, merely turning and letting John take the lead as they headed for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is....well. I was trying a slightly different style of narrative overview storytelling, and I don't think I like it, so I'll probably go back to excessive "in-mind" writing. XD Truthfully this story seems strange to me, because so much of the foundation is just atmospheric. By the time it really picks up, they're already in love with the idea of each other. Is that putting anyone off?
> 
> This was also editing while watching "Wanted" for the first time in years, and I love that movie, so I will re-edit. Apologies for any typos!


	3. No One Wants to Dig That Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was realizing with clarity where John had started to fit in his heart, and it terrified him."
> 
> Chapter title from "Underneath," by Adam Lambert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Turning On" by Adam Lambert; John POV  
> -"Underneath" by Adam Lambert; Sherlock  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson; John POV
> 
> Next chapter I think the story picks up more pace, ish, due to the introduction of several new characters, so hopefully I'll feel less conflicted about that one than I do about this one. Feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Chapter tags: Hm, overanalyzing of emotions and slight voyeurism.

A week before school began, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table on his laptop, researching something that--as far as John could tell, at a glance--had to do with carnivorous plants, and whether or not they could digest human flesh. Choosing to ignore that mental image, the teenager finished making lunch for them both, then sat across from his guardian.

Sherlock’s train of thought was distracted, though not halted, by the warm plate that suddenly slid into place beside his hand. The smells of beans and toast, eggs, sausage, and mushrooms wafted over him--John’s favorites--and Sherlock frowned, trying to remain focused on the article on his screen.

Then his fingers were jostled by the fork being pushed into his grip, and at last he gave up his attempt and levelled a stern look at John. The teen returned the expression, undaunted, and jerked his chin at the food. “It’s been two days,” he said firmly. “You’re eating that. All of it.”

A protest rose to Sherlock’s lips, but John was already ignoring him, returning to his own meal. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, feeling inexplicably warmed by the knowledge that John was closely monitoring how long he went without eating. Picking up the fork, he resumed his reading, trying not to smile as he caught John glancing over repeatedly, watching to make sure he did take a bite every few moments. Gradually the food was eaten.

Wordlessly John collected the dishes, chuckling a moment later when Sherlock seemed to forget he’d finished, and reached for his fork. The older man glanced in his direction, watching the soapy water run over the plates in the sink. Then his gaze slid around, taking in the clean counters, neatly stacked books and notepads, the tidy living room beyond the door, and the complete absence of any toxic residue from recent experiments.

“When did you clean the whole flat?” he asked in bewilderment, and John turned off the sink, facing him with a raised eyebrow. Affection was clear on his face as he smiled at his guardian.

“I work around you,” he answered. “I was worried I would disturb you, but I’m glad if I wasn’t in the way.”

Sherlock was thrown, torn between his natural irritation at having his things touched, and being impressed with how effortlessly John could get away with things that would make him hate other people. He stared at John in wonder, unsure how to express what he was feeling.

John’s eyebrow rose higher, a questioning and somewhat uncertain look flashing in his eyes, and Sherlock shook his head, tossing him a hasty smile and looking back at his computer. He tracked John peripherally, however, watching as the teenager wandered into the next room and sank into Sherlock’s chair to read. He kicked his legs up over the arm rest, his compact body stretching out leisurely, and Sherlock swallowed against the sudden ache in his chest.

He was realizing with clarity where John had started to fit in his heart, and it terrified him.

Sherlock was so fixated on his research that he did not stir again until three in the morning. He may not have noticed the time at all, but with an jarring thud, John landed in the chair next to him, his expression scolding.

“You have got to sleep,” he said, and though his tone left little room to argue, Sherlock felt obligated to.

“I’m fine,” he said dismissively, trying to keep his mind fixed on the statistics of the Venus Fly trap, and as far away as possible from the glimpse of bare chest visible through John’s robe, which was tied loosely at the waist. “I’ll nap tomorrow if I need to.”

“It is tomorrow,” John retorted, and his finger struck the keyboard before Sherlock realized he’d moved, turning off the backlight. It didn’t harm the research, but the sudden darkness made Sherlock blink in surprise. He frowned, opening his mouth, but John pressed on, cutting him off. “I am going to stay awake as long as you do from now on--and for a growing body with school coming up, even you know that’s a bit not good. Come on, Sherlock."

It was the way he said his name that gave Sherlock pause, the edge of resignation and yet, as always, the underlying fondness. He glanced at John’s face, taking in the small signs of exhaustion at his eyes and jaw-line, and felt his determination slip away. Whether or not John saw it as such, his ward was giving Sherlock a small opportunity to take care of him for once, and after all John did for him, he found himself relieved by the gift.

He adopted an annoyed expression, knowing that John would expect nothing less, but stood all the same, resting a hand on John’s arm in silent gratitude. It seemed John understood. He smiled up at the older man, waiting as Sherlock padded down the hall to his own room. The teenager stood alone in the dark kitchen, listening, until eventually Sherlock’s steady breathing reassured him enough to go upstairs to his own bed.

* * *

Sherlock was smoking again. Not the familiar stuff--no spoon was needed, hovering over the lighter, delivering that sweet euphoria he so craved. No, this was just regular cigarettes again--something he hadn’t touched in over five years.

The afternoon after John had forced him off to sleep, he bought a pack and sat down at the cafe down the road to smoke them, not wanting John to see him if he was still at home. He’d nearly gone through a quarter of the pack in two hours, and he didn’t feel inclined to stop.

Frustration simmered in his veins. He knew, understood with perfect clarity, that John was just a teenager, barely out of childhood--the knowledge was a constant weight, always hovering in the back of his mind, and present in every interaction between them. But John was so much more; he was already such an adult at heart, so much wiser than his years. He behaved so effortlessly like an equal--and Sherlock, for once in his life, had no difficulty treating someone as such.

John felt like a part of himself. Sherlock could neither remember nor imagine _not_ having the boy living in his home and life anymore. Even the small things that infuriated him from other people--being forced to eat, or sleep, or act polite in the face of stupidity--were endearing now, because it was John who expected them from him. Having the flat regularly tidied did not brass him off, as it had when he’d first moved in and Mrs. Hudson would get tired of his mess and interfere. Instead, it had come to mean security--the certainty that John was still there with him.

Above all, there was warmth in his life now, _heat_ , something burning at the center of all these changes. John Watson, the unexpected, the most interesting and valuable thing he had ever encountered.

The nicotine was good, a welcome rush of relief that Sherlock had been missing for a long time. He wouldn’t be able to quit for a while, not with the growing burden of these feelings for John. He sighed, pocketing the rest of the pack. There were balconies, of a sort, outside the windows at 221B. He could smoke out of the living room without endangering John’s lungs. Or drawing his attention to the cigarettes.

Sherlock tried, without success, to convince himself that he wanted to hide his renewed addiction from John for health reasons. He refused to acknowledge the possibility that he was ashamed of the smoking, of how desperate John made him feel, right down to his very blood.

He stopped to get take-away on the way home, not wanting to come home empty-handed with no excuse for where he’d run off to. As he entered the flat and shrugged off his coat, he heard the sound of the shower running, so he put the food cartons in the fridge and paused to look over a chemical reaction he’d left to settle on the countertop. There was a note next to it, John’s sloping scrawl informing Sherlock that he’d cleaned the kitchen, but he promised he hadn’t messed up the work.

Sherlock smiled, raising a hand to trace his fingertip over the letters. He couldn’t help thinking about John’s hands, imagining the way they would’ve looked as he penned the words, fingers firm and steady around the pen. His mind wandered over John’s quick little grins, and the way his eyes would light up when he listened to Sherlock explain a test or theory, even if he didn’t understand it all. He thought of the way John looked sprawled in the red armchair across from him, a book or magazine spread over his lap, absently chewing his bottom lip as he read. Warmth spread through Sherlock, and he glanced at the living room furniture, remembering the teen perched on the edge of the sofa, animated and happy as he watched a football match on the telly. The way he would look up and catch Sherlock watching him, and shoot him a cocky little grin. A shiver rippled through Sherlock.

He tried to persuade himself that this was not wrong; that any attraction he felt toward John was shallow, easily confused with platonic affection, and all he was really feeling was enjoyment for the way that John admired him--looked up to him even.

Unbidden, his mind filled with the image of John kneeling in front of him, gazing up with the same desire that coursed through him, like nicotine. Only better.

Sherlock fell back against the kitchen table with a soft groan, rubbing an aggravated hand over his eyes. He could never let John see him like this, almost predatory with the longing he felt. Desperately he reminded himself that he was older than John, much too old-- _only eight years_ , his mind murmured treacherously, _that’s hardly anything, really_ \--and that John would never see him that way. There was no chance--no _risk_ , he corrected hastily. No risk at all.

From down the hall, he heard a small whimpering sound. Almost compulsively, he straightened and walked slowly to the bathroom door, telling himself unconvincingly that he merely wanted to be sure John was alright. He paused in the hallway, tilting his head to hear beyond the door.

Under the sound of the water rushing, he caught the sound of John sighing and moaning softly. Intermittently, he heard the teen whispering variations of, “Please, oh, God, please...” Sherlock’s breath caught as shame and lust flooded through his own body. He knew what he was hearing, he knew he must walk away and respect John’s privacy, but he could not make his feet move.

There was the faintest slick sound of John’s hand on himself, barely audible over the shower, and Sherlock could feel his own cock twitch and harden. He pressed his forehead against the door, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and listened as John reached his orgasm, biting down hard on his lip to stay silent when John groaned, “God, _Sherlock_...” as he came. Sherlock’s palm flattened against the wood, his fingers tense, wanting so badly to push it open. Any possibility of convincing himself John did not feel the same burned away under the heat of his arousal.

After a long moment, before the shower could turn off, he clenched his fist and forced himself to turn away. He grabbed his coat and stalked out of the flat, wanting to spare John from knowing he’d been there to hear him. Mindlessly he returned to the corner shop before it closed, buying a second pack, knowing he’d finish the first one before the next day.

* * *

When he returned to 221B, John was seated in the red chair, reading a sports magazine. He smiled at Sherlock in greeting, not uncomfortable in the least. Sherlock mirrored the expression, feeling tightly wound and fragile, raw with the knowledge of how John sounded consumed by pleasure, of how his own name sounded on the teenager’s lips. Or of how desperately he longed to kiss the syllables right out of his mouth.

Crossing into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and began pulling out the take-away, then froze as John spoke from close behind him, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “When on earth did you get that?” the teen asked with a small laugh, coming over to grab forks.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open, but no excuse sprang to mind, and he looked down, knowing John would read it in his face. A small intake of breath confirmed that the teenager did realize the truth. Sherlock said nothing, silently offering a plate, and John accepted it wordlessly.

When Sherlock glanced up at him again, halfway through dinner, the teenager’s face was flushed with embarrassment, but he did not ask how much Sherlock had heard, and they let it drop.

After John had retreated to bed, however, Sherlock’s mind remained alive and drenched with the sounds of John’s pleasure--the wet slide of his hand on his prick, his breathless panting and soft gasps, the way he had moaned Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock shut himself in his own room, locking the door just in case, and sank slowly onto the bed. Without a conscious decision, he unbuckled his trousers, slipping his hand inside and slowly stroking the erection that had not truly wilted since hearing John’s first whimper. At last he banished the guilt and self-loathing and simply let it consume him, picturing John in the shower, slick and dripping and whispering his name.

He envisioned joining him there, pressing the teen against the tiled wall of the tub, feeling his shoulders tremble as Sherlock kissed him from his neck to his waist. Sinking to his knees, he would turn John around and take his cock in his mouth, feeling John shudder and hearing him cry out Sherlock’s name as he came down his throat, hands tangled helplessly in his wet black curls.

The visual pushed Sherlock over the edge, and he climaxed into his hand, biting hard on his other knuckles to keep silent, on the off-chance John was still awake. For several long minutes afterwards he lay in bed, feeling the sweat and semen cool on his skin, despising himself.

* * *

The night before John’s first day of school, the two of them sat down together for a celebratory home-cooked meal. Sherlock had even assisted with the food, for once. Rather than eating in the kitchen, they laid it out on the coffee table and pulled sofa cushions onto the floor, settling side by side with their backs against the couch.

Sherlock poured himself some wine, and paused to smirk when John pushed his own empty glass toward him. “Fine, but only one, alright?”

A mischievous grin flickered across the teen’s face as he accepted the beverage, waiting until Sherlock had raised his own glass to his lips before he said teasingly, “Okay, _dad,_ ” making Sherlock choke on his wine. He glared through watering eyes as John barked a laugh, before he composed himself enough to return John’s offered toast with a clink of glass.

Both the food and company were pleasant, and Sherlock pretended not to notice when John snuck a second glass, wanting the teen to enjoy himself. They talked and laughed over everything and nothing, sharing food and stealing from each other’s plates, and for an hour, it felt as if the age gap simply melted away. The hazy cloud of John having school the next day seemed to retreat from over their heads.

After he’d drained his second glass of wine, John lapsed into silence, frowning at his food as if it contained an answer he was looking for. Sherlock paused in eating, glancing at his companion with some concern.

When John spoke, there was a slight catch in his voice. “You’d...Sherlock, you’d tell me if I was a burden, wouldn’t you?”

The question surprised Sherlock enough that he couldn’t respond for a moment, and when he did, his voice rang with sincerity. “John, you’re the furthest thing from burdensome. What’s brought this on?”

It took a long moment for the teen to reply, and he didn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze when he did. “It’s just that--I’ve spent my life feeling like a burden to my parents, especially after Mum got sick and Dad had to look after us on his own, Harry being no help. I just couldn’t help but feel--I mean, I know this is stupid and irrational, but I always felt like I was somehow responsible for Mum getting ill. And Harry’s drinking got worse after she was diagnosed, which I felt like I should have been able to stop, but I didn’t--I felt useless. Helpless.”

As he said this, John’s gaze slid over to Sherlock’s coat, slung over the side of his armchair, and Sherlock realized that his most recent pack of cigarettes was visible in the pocket. His stomach twisted with regret as he recognized that in a roundabout way, John was expressing his concern--both over the habit, and the fact that Sherlock had felt the need to conceal it from him.

He smiled a little sadly at John, trying for levity. “Don’t worry about those, John, it...it isn’t the same thing.” _No indeed_ , the reckless part of him whispered. _Addiction, and loss, aren’t quite on par with being driven mad by lust for your teenage ward_.

John’s face twisted into a scowl, though there was more anxiety than reprimand in his eyes. “I _do_ worry, though. Cigarettes are a gateway, after all.”

Sherlock laughed softly, affectionately. “You sound like a medical PSA.”

“Well, becoming a doctor is still first on my list.” Stubbornness and amusement mingled in John’s tone, but he was watching Sherlock closely. When his guardian glanced away guiltily, his smile faded and he set down his fork, angling to face the taller man. “Have you...have you ever used anything stronger than cigarettes?”

There was a loaded pause, and Sherlock broke it by trying to grin, though the expression was a bit stiff. “It’s probably poor etiquette for me to tell you any of that, being your guardian,” he joked feebly, but John merely frowned at him, remaining silent, so Sherlock leaned back against the sofa with a small sigh.

“I grew up in an upper middle class family,” he began. “We lived in a little country house, Mycroft and I with our parents, and we were quite comfortable--though still below the line for having to participate in the lottery. My mother was a retired maths professor who seemed to understand my particular kind of genius--she was very good at nurturing my intellectual needs. I was happy enough, at home.”

Sherlock frowned, rubbing a fingertip over his lips pensively. “But outside of that little bubble, I always found people to be utterly, mind-numbingly stupid. I could hardly endure the ignorance I was surrounded by at school. I had no friends--just an absent-minded father, a doting mother, and a highly protective brother. Mycroft was not my friend, but he did shelter me from the abuse of my peers.” He stopped speaking for a moment, frowning at his memories, and John curled his knees up to his chest, listening with rapt attention.

“As a child, however, it was Mycroft himself who was one of my greatest frustrations. He was determined that we two boys achieve something ‘more,’ better than our family’s current station, and I felt constantly overwhelmed by his pressure for me to ‘overcome’ my dislike for people and use my intelligence for social purposes, as he did.”

He glanced at the little white box in his coat pocket, and John followed his gaze, then looked sharply back at him. The question burned in his eyes, and Sherlock nodded vaguely. “I began smoking when I was thirteen,” he said, and he shrugged when John made a horrified little noise. “Most adolescent boys choose some way to rebel,” he pointed out, but John merely made a face, shaking his head at the idea. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” Sherlock agreed dryly, smiling before he continued.

“The low-tar trash I would buy off the older boys at school was hardly strong enough for what I really needed. When I was sixteen, however, I stumbled upon one of the lads from my year, who was dealing heroin. I began experimenting. At first, I had it under control--it was a private means of channeling the chaos in my mind, of ordering my thoughts. Then it graduated to being a means of dealing with people. It was easier to be the progressive, ambitious academic that my brother seemed so proud of, when I was high.”

A sad noise slipped from John, and Sherlock stiffened, glancing at him warily--but there was no judgment in John’s young face, only sorrow. Irritation trickled through Sherlock. “I don’t need to be pitied for my past,” he said shortly, frowning at his hands. “Eventually I couldn’t function at university due to how my addiction had consumed my life, and Mycroft intervened. He got me into rehab, and cleaned me up, all without anyone ever finding out. I’ve been clean since then.”

John’s voice was soft and sad. “I don’t pity you. Not at all. I just wish...I wish I could’ve been there to help when you first succombed to it. I’d have told you how brilliant you are.” His voice caught, but he cleared his throat and went on, “I’d have told you that you didn’t need the drugs."

Heat surged through Sherlock, and he wondered what his life would have looked like if John had been there to meet him at sixteen, angry and ready to self-destruct, wishing someone would just empty his head out for him. He looked at John’s face, at the genuine sorrow and tenderness in the boy’s face, and the fire slid further through him, burning bright and hot and dangerously.

His voice was half-sad, half-cynical when he replied. “Well, when I really began to cave in, you were only eight years old--just a child.”

The reminder of their age difference hung between them, and they stared at one another across the scant inches between them. What Sherlock had intended the comment to mean, he wasn’t entirely certain--he had meant to say it spitefully, but it had come out wrong, more baiting than distancing. Somehow the tension between them only seemed to heighten, an entirely new level of need bleeding in after the rawness of the stories they had exchanged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flippity gidget, I don't know why this one was so hard to write.
> 
> Seeing Mockingjay Pt 1 tomorrow! Hopefully it's good!


	4. Into the Sun We Will Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Somehow he had been afraid, after a summer filled with worry for his mother, and being isolated away with Sherlock, that he would not know how to cope with other teenagers. But this...this was good. He could handle this."
> 
> Title from "Take Me Away."
> 
> EDIT 12/19: I had to reword a certain passage toward the end. I mistakenly stated that John has no sexual experience whatsoever, which is not true. To be discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Take Me Away" by Fefe Dobson [John]  
> -"Bring on the Wonder" by Susan Enan [theme]
> 
> Okay, big thing: I do not have a Brit-picker, a fact I lament daily. If anyone wants to apply, please please let me know lol. I would love to know for sure when I post that I am not being insanely too American, because Google can't seem to answer everything, and sometimes I feel just awful writing. I am from Alabama, lovelies. I've spent 10 days in the beautiful city of London, max, and know next to -5 about the school system. I am so sorry for mistakes. PLEASE notify me of errors, and they will be changed instantly. See the closing notes for specific questions re: this chapter.
> 
> Chapter warnings: teen angst, and some deliberation of the meaning of moving on.

 

School began the next morning, and brought with it the first autumn chill. Far sooner than he felt ready, John was hauling his dad’s old army pack out from under the bed--Sherlock had offered to buy him a new bag for school, but John felt more comfortable with the familiar weight on his shoulders--and grabbing a piece of toast on his way out. The flat was silent as he slipped out the door; Sherlock had not yet come out of his room, and after their conversation the evening before, John was afraid he might be avoiding his ward. John had lingered in the kitchen a bit longer than necessary, but there was no sound from down the hall, and at last he settled for leaving a quick note on the table, saying he’d see Sherlock that afternoon.

His mind was still reeling with what he had learned about his friend--was it odd to call one’s legal guardian a friend? Perhaps. But Sherlock _was_ his friend. He was so much more than that word. John frowned, kicking a windblown leaf on the footpath as he tried to ease the ache in his chest _._ Something had changed last night, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was prepared for the difference. He did not want Sherlock to be uncomfortable around him. There had been such vulnerability and caution in the older man’s face when he had spoken of his childhood. He had truly thought John wouldn’t be able to accept it.

Which was silly, frankly, the teen thought as he crossed the intersection in front of the school. On top of everything else unusual and unique about Sherlock, a somewhat troubling backstory hardly seemed all that unexpected. It certainly didn’t make him any less wonderful. If anything, his unsettling personal story only made John love-- _hm_. No, he couldn’t go down that path. It had made him _care_ more.

As he entered the massive front doors, John paused to take in the steady flow of people passing back and forth in the hallway. There were students and teachers and faculty, and no one cast him a second glass as he hovered uncertainly near the entrance.

“John Watson?”

The woman who approached him from what appeared to be the main office was stunning. Impeccably dressed in a flattering white dress, with black heels that made her seem more imposing than her slim figure would suggest, she seemed to radiate authority and sensuality in equal measure. Her dark hair was tied up neatly, and as she stopped directly in front of John, her sharp blue eyes brightened with interest.

His voice finally caught up to him, sounding slightly scratchy. “Um--yes, that’s me.”

She smiled, baring perfectly white teeth in a crimson-framed smile. “Pleasure. I am Ms. Adler, the headmistress. I’m sorry if I startled you. When Mr. Holmes--the elder Mr. Holmes, your guardian’s brother--submitted your information, he included a photograph. I recognized you, and thought I would come greet you personally.”

“Oh,” John said in surprise, wondering if Mycroft had asked her to speak to him. The suspicion seemed to be confirmed when Ms. Adler half-turned, gesturing to someone inside her office, and a pleasantly smiling girl with mousy brown hair tugged up in a ponytail emerged, heading over with an overflowing backpack hooked over one shoulder.

“John, this is Molly Hooper. She’s actually a lottery student, as well--under my own guardianship,” Ms. Adler said, her smile softening as if she knew that John was more than a little bewildered. “I thought perhaps she could show you around today, help you find your classes, etcetera. If you’d like.”

The way Molly beamed at him in friendly greeting, John didn’t have the heart to say no. He couldn’t help but feel an instinctive kind of fond exasperation for someone who would have decorative cartoons of cats stitched on all over their backpack.

First Molly showed him to his locker, studying his course list while he sorted out his books. “Looks like we have nearly identical classes,” she observed, holding up a planner that had a battered schedule taped to it for him to see the similarities. “Probably why Ire--Ms. Adler asked me to help you; I can just give you the tour while we go to classes.”

“Sounds good,” John agreed, pushing his locker shut. “You call your guardian by her first name?”

Molly blushed a little, looking apologetic. “Well, I know I probably shouldn’t, but really she’s my friend, nothing like a parent, and we get on so well--”

“No, hey, I get it,” he interrupted her, laughing at her feeling the need to defend herself. He didn’t get anything in the way of a queer vibe from Molly, so she most likely didn’t have nearly as bizarre a dynamic with her caretaker as he did with his. “I do, too. His name is Sherlock.”

A light went on in Molly’s eyes. “Oh, Mr. Holmes’ younger brother? Mr. Holmes works with the board of trustees for the school,” she explained when he gave her a startled look. “He’s actually comes by our--Ms. Adler’s and mine--flat for board meetings now and then. He seems nice. Is his brother alright?”

A question full of complications and possibilities John wasn’t sure how to address. “Very,” was what he settled on. “We get on great.”

* * *

Their schedules were indeed nearly identical, so John automatically had someone to sit with in each class, and someone to focus on as he avoided eye contact during the awkward moment when each teacher insisted he introduce himself to his classmates. Molly was a little shy, but undeniably sweet, and John found he really had missed having someone his own age to talk to.

In Chemistry, Molly offered to be his lab partner, and to John’s amusement he found that while Chemistry had never been his best subject, he was surprisingly better at it after a summer of listening to Sherlock go on about concepts far beyond those in a year 12 textbook.

“I hope I don’t come across as pathetic or something, with how much I love science,” Molly said softly at one point, and there was something vulnerable in her tone, as if she were far too used to being teased.

John looked at her in surprise. Somehow he couldn’t help but flash back to Sherlock’s description of himself as an overly intelligent child, with a mind that was wasted on his less academically-inclined peers. “Not at all,” he said firmly, and smiled at Molly when she glanced at him sideways. “I think science is brilliant--not my best area, maybe, but still amazing. And you’re if good at it, then be proud of that. Be happy you’re smart, instead of just being, I dunno, ordinary.”

He suspected that part of him was not speaking only to Molly as he said the words, but her smile and the slight way she seemed to perk up, before she focused on her notes, was worth it.

It was during that period that John began meeting Molly’s friends, when a girl with mocha skin and a tidal wave of tight, frizzy curls dropped onto the stool across from them, leaning on her elbows to peer at him before turning to Molly.

“Got tour duty, again, Mols?” she asked with a snarky grin, eyeing John in a way he found a little more appreciative than was comfortable. “Who’s this handsome devil, then?”

Molly made a small face, continuing to jot down notes in her composition book. “Sally, don’t be crass. This is John. John, this is Sally Donovan--we met when I started tutoring her in Chem, but now I can’t seem to get rid of her.”

John offered a hand, hoping the formality of the gesture would halt whatever scenario Sally was envisioning that had her licking her lips as she appraised him. She accepted the handshake, seeming undeterred. “Pleasure, mate.” With another once-over that had John squirming under her gaze, Sally returned to her own table, though he caught her glancing his way repeatedly. With a twinge, John wondered if there were any openly gay students at the school. If there weren’t, he might have difficulty keeping any friendships.

When the lunch bell rang, Molly and John were joined by Sally, and then their table in the dining hall filled with a loud group of boys who seemed to materialize from nowhere. For a moment John was thrown by the sudden increase in volume, watching wide-eyed as three boys tumbled onto the benches, two on either side of Sally and one perching on the end beside Molly.

“New boy, huh?” asked the one who’d slung an arm around Sally’s waist, giving John a quick analysis that seemed to declare him non-threatening, judging by the hand he thrust out for in greeting. “I’m Phil Anderson. Sally’s boyfriend.” There was some edge of challenge to the last bit, but John ignored it, inwardly relieved.

He returned the handshake firmly. “John Watson. First day, yeah.”

“He’s a lotto student, too,” Molly interjected, giving him an affirming smile as if to reassure him that it was alright to talk about that. Anderson merely nodded as if that was average information, but the boy on Sally’s other side perked up, reaching over to clasp John’s hand in more of a bear clasp than a shake.

“Same here,” he said cheerfully. “Name’s Victor Trevor--you can call me Vic. And that’s Henry,” he added, nodding to the quiet boy still seated at Molly’s side, an English textbook in front of him. Henry gave John a shy smile, before his eyes dropped again. Molly placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, smiling fondly, and John swallowed a grin at the somewhat adoring gleam in Henry’s eyes as he glanced back at the brunette. Molly wasn’t as invisible and bookish as she considered herself to be.

Victor was apparently attempting to lure Sally’s attention away from Anderson, but with little luck. Before long, the couple had drifted off into their own conversation, which appeared to primarily consist of a battle of tongues. John tried to ignore the slurpy sounds coming from their end of the table, his discomfort growing until Victor swung himself around and came to sit on Molly’s other side, facing John.

“Ridiculous, I know,” he said in a low voice, so only John could hear. He jerked his head at the snogging couple, making a face. “Anderson cheats on Sally all the bloody time--hasn’t made it a week since they started going out without getting his hands up someone else’s skirt. Wanker.” He stared moodily at the darker haired boy, whose hands were wandering dangerously close to Sally’s backside. “Well, I figure he can’t hide it forever, so eventually maybe she’ll move on--find someone better for her.” He gave John a cheeky grin, which he couldn’t help but mirror back weakly; Victor seemed decent, and it was clear it hurt him more than his tough attitude indicated, to see Sally dragged down by an unfaithful boyfriend.

The bell rang again, and Molly gathered her things, giving Henry a quick hug as the boy--who had not spoken a word the entire lunch period--slowly closed his book and slipped it into his bag. “You’ll be fine,” she told him kindly, and he smiled shyly, then surprised John by turning to him and offering a timid hand. “Henry Knight,” he said quietly. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he said in surprise, and then noticed the patch sewn onto Henry’s bag. “You play rugby?”

The smaller boy’s eyes lit up, and both Victor and Anderson paused what they were doing to glance over at John. “Yeah,” Henry said, his voice a little stronger. “We all do. Will you be trying for the team?”

“And by ‘trying’ he means ‘joining,’ we always accept new recruits,” Anderson cut in, grinning. “You play, John?”

“I do, yeah,” he returned, following them out of the dining hall. “When does it start?”

Victor answered, sidestepping Anderson to fall in beside John. “First meet-up will be on Friday. You’ll hear from me and my co-captain--yeah, there’s two of us--and any other lads wanting to join can try out. Anderson’s right, you’re in so long as you promise to show up for all practices and matches, but still. It’s good fun, I’m glad you’ll be there."

Warmth filled John, with the reassurance of camaraderie and a team of boys he could be friends with. This was what he needed. It would keep him active, and distracted...his stomach dropped a little, guilt nibbling at him at the knowledge that he was actively seeking a way to avoid Sherlock. But judging from his guardian’s silence this morning, that might be best.

Molly was tugging his sleeve gently, nodding at a classroom they were passing. “Biology is your only class I’m not in--I took it last year. But--” Molly paused, waving at a girl with reddish brown hair who was approaching down the hall. “--Sarah is in there, and she’s a good friend of mine--Sarah, hey, this is John Watson, he’s new. Bio is his only class I’m not in--could you sit with him?”

“Of course,” Sarah said, giving John a polite nod. She didn’t appear particularly taken with him, which was a relief after Sally’s lingering stares. “I sit up front, come on. Good to meet you. Did he suffer through the lads at lunch, Mols? Sorry, I was helping organize the dissection equipment.”

“He did indeed. But lucky us, he’s a rugby player--so we’ll be suffering from him, too, before long,” Molly joked, clapping John on the back. “Off you go, see you after classes.”

He nodded mutely, following Sarah into Biology. The ease and openness with which he was welcomed to their group was a huge weight off his shoulders. Somehow he had been afraid, after a summer filled with worry for his mother, and being isolated away with Sherlock, that he would not know how to cope with other teenagers. But this...this was good. He could handle this.

* * *

When classes let out for the day, the group assembled on one of the picnic tables on the sparse patch of grass out front. From the way they drifted together, with no rush to claim a space, he guessed that there was a campus wide understanding of who sat where, in the social times between and after daily classes.

He found himself seated on the tabletop, warmly pressed between Molly and Henry, feeling safe and content as Anderson and Victor bantered loudly about the rugby team. They’d lost a few lads who’d finished school the year before, but they had high hopes for newcomers, especially John.

“So how long have you played?” Victor asked, absently kicking a hacky sack back and forth with Anderson. “For school, or just for fun?”

“Oh, blimey, it’s business as usual,” Sally laughed before John could answer. “All you lads talk about is your rugby. Ah, well. Guess we know for sure John’s one of us, now, eh?” She grinned, leaning over to elbow him playfully, and Anderson abandoned the game to hurry over and wrap his arms around her, as if he felt obligated to hold her focus.

John snorted, keeping his eyes on Victor. “Both, I s’pose. I’ve just always loved sports--being active, competing and whatnot. Didn’t have a formal team as a kid, but my last school did, so I got pretty good. Even if tryouts aren’t strictly necessary, I think I’ll impress.” His mind jumped back to a question he’d forgotten to ask after lunch. “Oh, Vic--who’s the other captain?”

Victor opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, looking past John. Before he could turn around, a shadow fell across his legs, and Molly and Sarah stopped discussing the Biology assignment John and Sarah had received, as everyone looked up.

The new arrival was tall and muscular, with short, dark blonde hair that stuck up in messy spikes above a tan, handsome face. John found himself captivated by the boy's wide blue eyes, the left one of which was marred by a long-since healed scar that ran from above the eyebrow down to his cheekbone. He was wearing a rugby shirt and gym shorts, with a ball tucked loosely under one arm.

He crossed in front of John without seeming to register that he was unfamiliar, sinking onto the bench on Molly’s other side, where he was immediately accosted by Victor and Anderson. John listened to them try to outdo one another in volume as they made suggestions for the team, and talked about their summers. The boy didn’t speak, merely listened to the others with a small smile, his fingers tracing the threading on the ball he held.

John frowned, turning to Molly, who was squinting at her notebook. “Molly, who is that?”

His tone must have given away more than he’d intended, because when Molly glanced at his face, she raised her eyebrows in surprise, shot a look at the dark blonde boy, then back to John with a small quirk to her lips. “Oh--is that the team you bat for, then?”

It was a funny way to go about admitting his sexuality to new friends--but she did not seem concerned, and although he wondered how she’d react if he was straight and took offense to the implication (he could only imagine how flustered the poor girl would be)--John was almost relieved it might be this simple.

“Yes,” he said, a little warily.

Molly’s eyes widened fractionally, but she just giggled, giving him a big smile that clearly said, _It doesn’t matter here._ “Well, good luck, mate,” she said in a soft, conspiratorial tone. “That’s Vic’s co-captain, Sebastian Moran. He doesn’t date, at all--though to be fair to him, there aren’t that many openly gay kids at this school, so who knows. Maybe you’ll be the first to actually be his type.”

A startled, if somewhat pleased, laugh tore from John, and the sound of it drew Sebastian’s attention to him for the first time.

Before John could introduce himself or say anything, Sally leaned around him to loudly inform Moran, “Seb, John Watson. New lotto student, and acceptably cool.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows rose at the mention of the lottery, and at last he turned fully to face John on the bench, reaching across Molly to offer his hand. A little intimidated by the boy’s silent stoicism, John returned the shake, then remembered his manners. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said firmly.

A slow smile filled the other boy’s face, and it made a huge difference, changing his look from watchful to warm. His eyes were mesmerizing as he studied John’s face. “The pleasure is mine.”

Whether it is was his voice, his words, or simply the intensity of his scrutiny, John felt a slight blush flood his cheeks, though he couldn’t imagine why. When Sebastian released his hand, his fingers closed on air, feeling as if the heat of the other boy’s hand was lingering in his skin.

* * *

The Sherlock “bubble” John had lived in all summer seemed to evaporate as he fell into the rhythm of school--and after Friday afternoon, into the hard beat of rugby practices.

He was almost stunned by the speed and intensity with which he found himself captivated by Sebastian Moran. The team co-captain was confident, a good leader, not outspoken or annoying--traits which he clearly worked hard to keep in check in his partner, Victor--and he handled the rowdy group of boys extremely well, on and off the field. Their respect for him was clear. He made John feel readily welcome, and practices became a kind of home away from home for him.

It left life at 221B feeling strange and disjointed, however. John’s school hours had reinforced the age barrier between himself and Sherlock, reminding them unpleasantly that he was a teenager, and Sherlock an adult. Two weeks into school, he came home to find his guardian bent over his microscope, looking like he had not moved since John had left that morning. John discarded his bag near the living room couch with a suppressed sigh, staring at the older man’s rigid shoulders.

Sherlock did not look up from what his work. “How’s school?”

John’s mouth twisted down, and he took a deep breath, fortifying himself to make his voice sound perfectly steady when he replied. “It’s--good, I really like it. The kids are nice, classes are challenging--in the right way, like, academically satisfying, I guess--and rugby...is a fun way to blow off steam.”

His voice caught as he mentioned the sport, and John knew that Sherlock must have heard the slight hitch in his tone. His guardian tilted his head to the side, looking at him curiously, but John’s mouth dried up, and the words did not come. He didn’t know how to explain the heat he felt when he played--it wasn’t like it used to be, not the simple bliss of losing himself in the exertion and sun and work and competition.

It was about Sebastian Moran. It was something new and confusing that he did not know how to bring up with Sherlock, especially when they had really never resolved any of the simmering questions that hung between them from the past summer.

Pasting a smile onto his face, he dug around the mess on the coffee table for their stack of takeaway menus. “So, what do you want for supper?”

* * *

Halfway through his third week of school, John’s father called, and he lowered his homework with shaking hands to answer the phone.

“She’s doing better,” he told Sherlock afterward, giving him a grateful smile. Sherlock had slipped silently into the kitchen, understanding that John needed privacy as he checked in with his parents. “Not--not in remission, but better. She’s at home again.” He swallowed, looking down. “I asked if that changed my living situation at all--” He heard Sherlock’s slight inhale, and blinked rapidly, wondering if Sherlock would have preferred that. “--but he said no. Her in-home care costs too much, so this is still best."

Glancing up, he found his own relief--which was something he had not tried to put into words; how could he admit to his own father that he did not want to return yet, that he was happier here, with this impossible man?--was mirrored just as strongly in Sherlock’s icy blue eyes. John had no idea what was going on between them--there’d been no mention of their intense conversation three weeks earlier, and nothing said about the uncomfortable coolness that had settled in since John had started school.

“I’m glad she’s doing better,” Sherlock offered, and there was clear happiness in his eyes for the reprieve to John’s family’s suffering. For a moment, John wanted desperately to embrace his guardian, to sink into the safety of his arms as he had that day in the hospital.

Instead, he only nodded, smiling tightly, and turned to slip back out of the kitchen.

* * *

John’s place among his friends at school quickly ended up being snugly between Molly and Seb, with a perfect balance of academics and athletics, friendship and...other. Molly had not told the others he was gay, though he assumed they must be aware of it. He thought it was glaringly obvious, considering his ease with the girls, and the slight distance he kept from the boys. It wasn’t that he didn’t find any of them attractive, necessarily; he just knew from experience that people’s comfort levels could vary greatly. And since it appeared that all of his friends were straight--with the exception of Seb, who seemed disinterested in anyone in that regard--he chose to toe the line.

He wondered if there was something there, feelings growing out of friendship that might lead somewhere more, but Seb did not outwardly treat him differently. He was as outgoing and affectionate with John as he was with the other boys, always speaking with an easy warmth that never seemed to turn into flirting, with anyone.

For a little while, as September tumbled into October, he’d debated the possibility that Seb was bisexual, but ruled it out by asking Molly.

“I don’t think so,” she’d answered pensively, considering the question with utmost solemnity. It was something John loved about her--no one’s thoughts or feelings were too trivial for Molly to consider with anything short of dead seriousness. “We became friends in year 10, and I remember asking if he was taking anyone to the spring dance that year, and he laughed and told me that it wouldn’t really work for him. He’s never paid attention to any girls except Sally and Sarah and I, and it’s quite clear we’re all platonic.” She’d shrugged, smiling at John as they’d headed to the library to work on Chemistry. “I know he likes you quite a lot, he’s never warmed up to anyone so quickly. Just give it time and see what happens.”

John did not know how to explain that it wasn’t that he wanted Seb to be interested in him; he had quite enough conflict going on in his heart these days. But he could not help but feel a sort of stirring, deep inside, when Seb would look at him, making him feel spotlit by those keen blue eyes. As uncertain as he felt about his potential love life--or complete lack thereof--he did not think he’d find Seb’s attention particularly undesirable.

School became a pleasant pattern of lectures, doing homework during lunch, and laughing and horsing around after school. Three days a week, there was rugby practice. If he had no pressing assignments, he would sit with Seb and Victor and Anderson, discussing tactics and debating the strengths and weaknesses of their team.

Most of the time it seemed that although Seb and Victor were the team captains, they considered it a solid unit that worked together in harmony, rather than under anyone’s authority. The seriousness with which they listened to their players, and incorporated their preferences into play, was a vast improvement to how John had ever played before.

On days when there was no practice, though, John had begun to notice that Seb did not always leave campus as quickly as the others did, after school. Before long, he took to lingering as well, remaining at their bench with the other boy. Sometimes it was only a few minutes, the chilly air eventually driving them both to their homes; other days, Seb might sit there for an hour or two, reading or studying or staring into space, and John gradually found himself hating the sight of the other boy alone there, cheeks red from the cold, and eyes downcast.

He did not speak at these times, or ask Seb why he was still there. Instead he simply started staying beside him, occupying himself, hoping that his presence was more comforting than irritating.

If Seb understood that John was remaining specifically for him, he did not comment. He merely smiled at John, after this had happened several times, before returning to his book. Without a word, John edged closer, using his body to block some of the cool breeze. Seb did not make a sound, but John felt his weight shift marginally, angling toward the heat of his body.

After that, it happened every day that there was no practice, the two boys staying behind to read quietly side-by-side. Sitting together in companionable silence became as familiar to the two of them as talking rugby, or chatting with the gang. If the cold was too much on a given day, they moved in unspoken agreement to the benches nearer the school building, sheltered by the brick.

* * *

One Friday afternoon in late October, Seb found Molly and John in the library, finishing up a study session for their Chemistry midterm. It was lunch, but with exams and assignments becoming heavier on everyone’s shoulders, group meals were a luxury not all could afford.

Molly, who was already slipping her books into her bag when Seb approached their table, beamed apologetically at the lanky boy. “I’ve got to run, sorry--have maths to turn in. Bye, Seb!”

Nodding at her as she waved goodbye to John, Seb turned back toward him with a small, tight smile. “May I join you?” he asked.

As always, John couldn’t help but enjoy his friend’s voice. Over the past two months, he had heard it in so many contexts; clear and authoritative during rugby, soft and happy with their friends, or low and intense in classes, on the rare occasion he spoke up. Seb had a soothing voice, and when he spoke, John always listened.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to develop a normal crush on someone his own age. It was such a simpler knot of feelings than the complex, unstable, uncertain mess of emotions which rose up to choke him when he thought about Sherlock--which had, he realized with a slight jolt, begun to feel far less suffocating, the more time he spent in Seb’s company.

He jerked back to the present with a small mental shake. “Of course,” he said, hurriedly drawing his papers closer to himself, making room. Seb sank into Molly’s abandoned chair, propping his chin on his folded fists and shaking his head fractionally as John hesitantly starting closing his textbook.

“No need,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just thought I’d...sit with you.” One hand dropped to pat his bookbag. “I have my homework if I run out of thoughts.”

Slightly flustered, John just nodded in agreement, returning his gaze to his book--though his mind did not follow its path. He tried to focus on his chemical equations, but peripherally he could see that Seb did not pull anything from his bag, and John was highly aware of the other boy’s quiet presence.

After several minutes of low-simmering tension, John glanced up, and stilled when he found Seb watching him silently. The taller boy did not look away, or appear in any way shy about being caught staring. Their gazes held for a long moment before John at last looked back down.

He was attracted to Seb. It was alien, strange, so simple and easy a thought after all the stress of the past year. Since his mother’s diagnosis, he had not allowed himself to consider anything about his romantic life, aside from the knowledge that he preferred boys; fortunately, his limited sexual experience prior to that hadn't been serious, and it was easy to push the idea of dating into the 'later' column. And since Sherlock had entered his life, he had further tightened his clamp on the idea of romance, because he had never  felt anything like the desire that Sherlock inspired in him...and that was such an impossibility that it was almost laughable. He’d thought he might just snap and go mad the day that Sherlock had heard him in the shower--the memory made him flush anew in embarrassment--but his guardian had said nothing, and the incident had faded into trivialness.

But this, this was completely new and novel. John genuinely liked Seb. He found him handsome, friendly, perhaps a little mysterious-- _oh, God, was he going to be the sort whose type was ‘tall, dark, and brooding?’_ \--and there was a deep intelligence, and maturity, in Seb’s manner, which drew John to him.

The possibility that Seb could also be attracted to him was...daunting. During the summer, when it was just him and Sherlock, the subtle flirtation between them had felt more playful than real, like a game--though looking back, it seemed to be almost a game of chicken, seeing who would back down first, who would declare it all a bad idea. But John was certain that nothing had really been going to happen...much as he wished for it, it just wouldn’t be possible. He had had to convince himself of that.

Seb, on the other hand, was his own age, available--and, perhaps, the perfect distraction. He was really who John should consider pursuing, if he was going to tangle his life up at all with dating. Assuming Seb was, indeed, as affected as he was.

What scared John about moving forward, as much as he loathed to admit it, was exactly the same reason why this could be the best choice. It was the way Seb looked at him--like he could see everything. All of it, including the things that John couldn’t admit to, like Sherlock, and the wanting, and the dark little voice saying, _Consequences be damned_.

John had never told his parents that he felt guilty and responsible for the hard times, for his mother’s pain, or for Harry’s problems. He could not tell Sherlock how much the older man made him feel safe, like he had a real future, and how desperately he wanted Sherlock to be an intrinsic part of that. And he was afraid to let someone who seemed so good and normal and real, as Seb was, to see all that stormed away inside him.

But more frightening and confusing than the chance that Seb could see any of the hurricane raging in John’s head, was the fact that he seemed to genuinely not mind what he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay on this, guys, I...have had a hell of a week. Month. Time. I don't know. I had a birthday and some stuff, and found out a friend did not want me in her wedding. Life has been frustrating.
> 
> (American minds wish to know: "Canteen" or "cafeteria?" How often do rugby teams practice? Can there be co-captains? Can students take Chemistry and Biology in year 12? Would it please more if I named the school? I considered Westminster Secondary, then opted against a name).


	5. Fed With Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...in spite of it all, he could not douse that torch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Permanent" by David Cook; John POV  
> -"It Ain’t the Way" by Sunrise Ave; chapter theme
> 
> As a disclaimer, this chapter was actually originally the end of chapter 4, so that is why it is shorter. Title is from "It Ain't the Way."
> 
> EDIT 12/14: Corrected a sentence that someone pointed out did make a lot of sense toward the end. Thank you, cwb!
> 
> Warnings for: Implications of physical abuse, and angsty angst.
> 
> Also it occurred to me that I should show y'all how I imagine teenage Seb.
> 
> His hair looks too dark in that photo, but the point is, it's young Michael Fassbender. :)

 

**Wednesday (10:47am)**

_You okay? -JW_

**Wednesday (10:48am)**

_Yeah. Why? -SM_

**Wednesday (10:48am)**

_You haven’t been at school at all this week. Are you ill? -JW_

**Wednesday (10:50am)**

_I’m fine. I’ll be there tomorrow. :) -SM_

John stared at the brief conversation, worry gnawing at his stomach. Seb had not been at school either Monday or Tuesday, and when he’d again failed to show up today, John had caved and snuck to the loo to text him. Aside from the very first day they’d met, when he had not arrived until after classes, Seb had never been absent for a full day.

Come to think of it, though, John had noticed that Seb did sporadically take half-days. He would show up at lunch, having missed the morning, or he would be there and then disappear when the rest of them went to eat. It happened rarely and randomly enough that John hadn’t even noticed the pattern until there was this anomaly, this three-day absence with no word or explanation.

He stared at the texts a moment longer, but there was nothing else to say, so he pocketed his mobile and hurried back to class.

Sitting at their usual lunch table, he found himself next to Victor, and it occurred to him that since Seb had missed one practice this week, he must have told his co-captain why.

“Vic,” he began, and his friend tore himself away from scowling at Anderson and Sally, who were--as usual--engaged in an enthusiastic and fairly inappropriate display of affection. “Um, Seb hasn’t been to school this week, and he missed Monday’s practice. Do you know what’s up?”

Victor shrugged, his mouth half-quirking as he sipped from his water bottle. “I’ve never asked him, truthfully--oh, he’s had absent streaks like this every year,” he added, when John looked confused. “He’s good about turning up, obviously, and he works hard so he can stay on the team, but then there will just be the random weeks where he’s gone. He works twice as hard the next practice, so I don’t complain. Hell, he might just be playing truant. I figure he’d tell us if there was something bad going on, though.”

Months of watching his mother deteriorate without complaint or outburst, and an equal time witnessing Harry slipping into depression, alcoholism, and bitterness without asking for help, made John highly aware that sometimes people did not speak up when they needed to. He wanted desperately to believe Victor was right, and that he was overreacting to Seb’s nonattendance out of misplaced protectiveness--besides which, Seb was not his to protect even _if_ something was up--but still John’s belly churned with unease.

His disquiet felt more than warranted on Thursday morning, when Seb appeared around the corner and joined the group just before the warning bell rang. The tall blonde had dark circles beneath his eyes. They weren’t just faint shadows, as if he hadn’t slept well the night before; the flesh beneath his powder blue eyes looked nearly purple from exhaustion, and the whites were riddled with dilated blood vessels, leaving them raw and bloodshot.

What nearly stopped John’s heart in his chest, though, was the glimpse of his friend’s well-muscled forearms as they meandered into their first class together, and Seb slowly shrugged out of his windbreaker before sinking into his chair with a warm smile at Molly, who patted his shoulder with a murmured, “Welcome back.”

Beneath the partially-rolled sleeve of his white uniform shirt, there was a faint shadow of a bruise, what almost looked like the imprint of fingers clenched into the light skin.

John’s breath caught, barely a hitch, but Seb must’ve heard it, because he glanced over with a questioning look. When he followed John’s gaze to his arm, however, he frowned slightly, reaching to unfold his sleeve and tug it back down his arm. John opened his mouth to speak, ignoring the slightly forbidding glance Seb shot him, but the final bell rang, and he settled back in his seat with pursed lips, anger and concern surging through him.

Seb, for his part, studiously did not look at John again the entire class. Right before the period ended, he excused himself without a word, slipping out without meeting John’s gaze, which remained fixed sternly on the back of his head.

As they gathered their things to move to their next classroom, John caught Molly’s arm, waiting until their peers had drifted toward the door before he spoke in a low, hurried voice. “Molly, did you--has Seb ever shown up with bruises on his arms before?”

Molly’s mocha brown eyes widened, and John was relieved that she was the one who was here for him to ask. He couldn’t help thinking she was probably the only other one who’d pay attention to such a thing.

She swallowed, her throat bobbing as she slung her bookbag over her shoulder, nudging him toward the door as she replied. “I...yes,” she said finally, her tone soft. “I asked him once, last year, when he looked like he’d come out for the worse in a fight. He just...smiled at me, and told me it was nothing.” She glanced around, but no one was close enough to eavesdrop on them. “He always says he’s fine. Eventually, I stopped asking. I know, though--I--when he’s gone for days like this, the others don’t mind because he doesn’t fall behind in school or rugby. But still...”

“Yeah,” John said, agreeing with whatever ending that sentence could have had. “Still. Should we ask him?”

Molly bit her lip, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so, John. He’s not trying to draw attention to it, you know? I think whatever it is, he really doesn’t want us asking.”

“But if someone’s hurting him--” John began heatedly.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Molly asked, looking like she might cry at the implication. “Look at him, John. He’s a rugby player--team co-captain. Someone who could push _him_ around? Either they’re more than you could handle--no, don’t look at me that way, I’m not insulting you! Either they’re very strong, or it’s someone he’s unwilling to fight....someone he might trust. And how will he feel if you try to intervene, and he’s been struggling to cope with it on his own? We can’t help him by ourselves, I am sure of that.”

Somehow, the amount of thought Molly had put into this was what calmed John down enough to think clearly. She was right, of course, and her logic soothed some of his distress. John let out a long breath, glancing into their next class and seeing that Seb was already in his seat, apparently doodling in his notebook.

“Okay,” he murmured, turning back at Molly. “I...I don’t like not doing anything. Something’s wrong, and I think he needs us. But you’re right, unfortunately.”

“I know,” she said sadly, reaching out and squeezing his arm. “We’ll figure something out, I promise. Now that I know I’m not the only one worried about him, I feel like maybe we’ll get somewhere.” The slightest sparkle lit in her eyes, lessening the strain in her features. “And since he fancies you, maybe he’ll actually come to you about it.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes at the little grin she shot him. “Yeah, no, that’s not helping, Mols.”

Giggling, she followed him into the room, and seeing the two of them smiling, Seb appeared to relax, perhaps assuming that John’s concern from earlier had faded. Unsure what else to do, John clasped his shoulder as he passed, giving him a warm look that he hoped would convey to his friend all the things he wasn’t sure how to say.

* * *

After that day, John became more watchful, keeping an eye on Seb’s behavior and body language. As he’d feared, he began to notice that there were regularly days when there was something behind the other boy’s eyes--a flicker of pain across his face as their teammates greeted him rowdily, a quickly-hidden grimace if his arms were jostled abruptly, or a slight stiffness to his movements, and a faint lilt to his speech, as if he was laboring to keep himself together for appearances’ sake.

It was all very subtle; unless you knew that you were looking for symptoms of injury, they were nearly impossible to detect, and John’s heart constricted with pain every time he saw Seb masterfully conceal his pain from their friends. And as desperately as he longed to protest, to pull Seb aside and demand to know who was doing this to him, he knew that might only worsen the situation. So he watched, getting more and more tense and angry with every cut-off flinch and suppressed grunt of discomfort he observed.

When this had been going on for several weeks, and November was sweeping over them, he finally snapped on the day that he saw bruises edging dangerously close to the collar of Seb’s shirt, as if someone had been gripping him by the throat. The two boys were sitting in the library together, working in silence, but John could not keep his eyes from darting over and over to the blue edge of the mark on Seb’s neck.

“Seb,” he finally started, his voice shaking slightly from fear for his friend. Those inscrutable blue eyes rose to meet his, and Seb arched one thick brow inquiringly.

John sucked in a breath, hoping he was not throwing himself foolishly off of a cliff. “I...I’m sorry, I don’t mean to...to bring it up again--” He saw the flash of panic and anger in Seb’s eyes, and part of him wanted to swallow his tongue, to back off, but he could not do that--another glance at the bruise, and he clenched his jaw and pushed on. “--Look, I’m sorry, but--it looks like someone tried to _strangle_ you, Seb. What is happening?”

It wasn’t exactly the eloquent way he would have planned to ask, had he given this any forethought, but his voice quaked with concern and affection--God, how he hoped Seb that understood how much he cared (though maybe not how _in what way_ he cared; he didn’t want this to be about his feelings for the other boy)--and he hoped Seb would appreciate that, more than he would resent the topic being revisited.

Seb stared at him for a long moment, and there was no wrath or rejection in his gaze, merely a deep, searching sort of expectation. John did not lower his eyes, hoping his sincerity was apparent. The fact that Seb’s scrutiny felt hotter than fire, burning through him and leaving him feeling blatantly exposed to the other boy, was only marginally distracting. It was almost impossible to imagine that Seb would not see John’s desire for him as a person mingling with his desire for Seb’s safety.

Then Seb startled him by reaching out, clasping John’s hand on the table top. His skin was warm and rough, calluses rasping over the smooth back of his hand, and his thumb moved in small circles, rubbing soothingly along the hard lines of his metacarpal bones.

“I know you care, John,” he said at last, in a low rumble that John could have sworn he felt through the contact of their hands. Something warm and sweet rippled through him, deep in his belly. “And it means a lot to me, truly. But you don’t need to worry, I promise you. It’s not as bad as it appears--” He gave a semi-self-conscious little shrug, which succeeded in sliding his shirt collar over the edge of the bruise, erasing it from view. “--And I am happy.”

That shook John from his stupor, and he twisted his hand beneath Seb’s, turning it palm-up to grasp his friend’s hand, holding tight. Seb did not resist his hold, though his own fingers were limp within John’s. “Happy?” John echoed. “Seb...no. Tell me, please, who is doing this to you?”

Seb shook his head, and now he did pull away, withdrawing his hand and leaving John feeling ridiculously bereft of the heat of his touch. “I’m sorry,” Seb murmured, dropping his eyes back to his paper. “No matter how much I trust you--and I do, John, I swear, I really do--I won’t answer that, so please...don’t ask again.”

He burned with a desire to fight on, to insist, but John could see how miserable he was making his friend, and his compassion won over his protectivity. Begrudgingly, he backed off, though his eyes stung with what felt suspiciously like tears, and his throat felt as if a hard rock had lodged itself securely in place.

* * *

Victor had cancelled Friday’s practice in order to study for a test. Left with the spare time, and not particularly wanting to head home early--John felt as if he was living in an ice box, barely speaking with Sherlock aside from vague pleasantries and confirmations that school was going well for him, and work was the same for Sherlock. John loathed it--he wandered out to the field, crawling behind the wooden bleachers into a spot he had discovered back before the cold set in. It was shielded from the wind, and he rather enjoyed the chill against his skin. Sometimes when Molly was unavailable, he came to study here instead.

Footsteps crunched across the frosty grass, and John glanced up in surprise to find Seb at the opening to his hideaway, leaning down to peer at him with a politely apologetic expression. “Sorry if I’m disturbing,” he said lightly, and John chuckled, shaking his head. “Can I join you?”

Nodding in welcome, John shifted over to give him space, and Seb crawled in to tuck himself next to him, their sides pressed together from shoulder to hip, sharing warmth. The weight of the familiar body was comforting to John, and he realized that between the coldness that had settled between him and Sherlock because of their age gap, and the tension that choked him each time he saw Seb hiding bruises and pained looks from him, he had begun to feel impossibly lonely, even surrounded by his friends.

After they’d sat a few minutes without speaking, leaning into each other and watching the grass ruffle under a faint breath of wind, John inhaled, enjoying the vague burn of the cold on his lungs. “You weren’t at lunch today,” he murmured. “Was everything okay?”

He could hear the smile in Seb’s voice, and when he glanced sideways it was there, a small, sad upward tug of his lips. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just had to run an errand.” He drew one knee up to his chest, folding his arm over it and letting his raised thigh rest lightly over John’s leg. The increased contact made John’s breath catch slightly.

“Thanks for asking,” Seb adding, looking into his eyes for a moment before his gaze dropped to his hands. John nodded wordlessly, focusing on the warmth of their thighs pressing together, the hard curve of Seb’s muscles tangible through the cheap cotton of their school trousers.

Another two minutes passed quietly, and then Seb broke it, speaking with a force that hinted that he had prepared these words, and John froze as he listened. “John, I know--I know that you’re carrying a torch for someone, and it’s been burning a while. Since before we met. I understand that completely--in a way, I’m trapped in a similar situation.” He paused, taking a deep breath, and lowered his leg in order to shift to the side, half-facing John. His eyes glowed with intensity, and John could not breathe, staring into their oceanic depths.

“But it doesn’t stop me from--well. I can’t help being interested in you all the same,” Seb got out, looking like the words were clawing their way out of his throat. “I know how it feels to love someone one-sided. And I’ve realized that I may as well find someone who will actually acknowledge me, and how I feel about them--someone who...who returns my feelings. If...if you would ever want. Something like that.”

A thousand different emotions cascaded through John, leaving him speechless for a long moment, his mind flailing and gaping like a fish out of water as he struggled to comprehend what Seb was suggesting. What he was offering.

Deep inside, the rational part him managed to assemble one coherent thought: despite how brittle things had become at home in 221B, and in spite of the fact that he could never have Sherlock--his unrequited love, oh how he hated that Seb was right, but he was, damn it--in spite of it all, he could not douse that torch, exactly as Seb had seen, and yet this wonderful boy was still offering him a life raft, someone to hold onto in his loneliness. Seb was willing to come in second-place, because that was all he would likely ever have so long as Sherlock existed in John’s life. And yet he did not mind.

Realizing that Seb was still waiting, eyeing him with slight trepidation, John blinked rapidly, then found himself smiling, his cheeks stinging from cold as he broke into a stunned grin.

“I...thank you, Seb.” Somehow it felt important to say his name, to make it clear in this crucial moment that he knew exactly who he was speaking to. “Seriously, thank you. I--yes. I mean, yes, I...I feel that way, too.” The words sounded so huge, so significant, and he swallowed. “But--can I get back to you? I just--I’m really surprised, and I need to think a little bit. Can I answer you when the shock wears off?” Both boys chuckled, and John reached out instinctively, grabbing Seb’s hand tightly, relieved when his hold was returned firmly. “I honestly thought that you never saw me that way.”

That made Seb laugh again, low and sweet, and ne nodded, rubbing John’s hand between his own to warm it. “Of course.” He studied John’s face, smiling a little self-consciously. “I think you’re wonderful,” he said at last, and John felt his face flush warmly, the blood tingling pleasantly in his cheeks, making Seb huff again in fond amusement. “I do. I would have said so right off, when we met, if I hadn’t realized that there was someone else.”

He squeezed John’s hand, then let it go, giving him a gentle pat on the leg before he gathered his bag up, preparing to leave. “Which is okay,” he added, and John gazed at him with wide eyes. Seb’s gaze was soft and accepting. “Whatever you need to do.”

* * *

John paused at the foot of the stairs inside 221, inhaling slowly as he heard the faint strains of violin music drifting down from their flat. Abruptly what had just happened crashed through him, and he felt the blood drain from his face and hands, replaced by icy uncertainty.

 _How the hell did I get here_? he thought numbly. _Two men--boy? No, that sounds too childish for Seb--two men, both...want me? I think. Does Sherlock want me? If he does, he’ll never act on it...which is....which is best. I shouldn’t want that. I don’t_. He exhaled shakily, hating that what should be a stabilizing fact was instead scalding through him as a sickening lie.

It would make it all so much easier if John could somehow let Seb take the place that Sherlock had unintentionally filled in his heart. If he could go back to the start and focus on befriending his guardian without bloody well _falling_ for him, knowing that something more rational and proper was coming his way. Instead he found himself longing for the one, while tumbling toward a safety net of sweet affection offered by the other, second-best choice. And how cruel was that? Seb shouldn’t be second for anyone.

_But if he knows that’s what it is, and he still wants it, you needn’t be a martyr and leave all three of us in torment, wanting what we can’t have. Who the hell knows what Sherlock wants? Seb could have his--though what was that about being in a similar place?--and you could have something that...that does make you happy. It would. It will._

The music over his head shifted into something slow and melodramatic, as if Sherlock was telling him, _I know you’re home, come on up_. Chuckling weakly--God, how he loved that ridiculous man--John tightened his hold on his bag, climbing the stairs.

As he pushed the door to 221B closed and discarded his bag by the couch, Sherlock paused his playing, remaining at the window with his back to John. “How was practice?”

John had never mentioned to him that today’s was cancelled. The teen’s gut twinged, knowing he’d intentionally not done so in order to remain at school with Seb, and not have to tell Sherlock.

He hesitated, staring at Sherlock’s broad shoulders, so handsomely framed by the fine cut of his suit. The desire to be honest, to tell his guardian about Seb--whether to clear the air, or to see his reaction, to test if he actually _cared_ \--clenched around his heart...and then loosened, and he swallowed the impulse down.

One small breath in. “Practice was great,” he said, proud when his voice was steady and reasonably happy, as if he was not stressed in the least. A quick mental calculation confirmed that he’d been gone longer than practice would have run for, meaning Sherlock knew he had lingered at school outside of necessity.“We have really great captains,” he added, wiping his sweaty palms on his sides. “I’ve...become pretty good mates with one of them.” That felt sufficient, and unsuspicious. Conversational, like he was just chatting. _Good enough_. “Uh, I’m going to change, be right back,” he said, then turned and ducked up the stairs to his own room, trying not to feel like he was fleeing from Sherlock.

Alone in the living room, Sherlock waited for a moment, listening to John’s footsteps thud up the steps. Lowering his violin and bow, he glanced around at the empty space where John had stood, quivering with anxiety that had been obvious, even out of Sherlock’s direct line of sight.

How he wished the teenager didn’t feel like he had to hide. Sherlock couldn’t explain, either, what had changed since September, since John had started school. He did not know if it was as simple as the unconscious reinforcement of their age difference, or if it was something--or some _one_ \--at school, drawing John away...just as Mycroft had told him to expect. Had instructed him to _allow_.

Sherlock didn’t understand, and he hated it, because he loved the boy--even the thought made his stomach clench guiltily, the paradox between the emotion, and the awareness of John’s youth, and he wished to God he could let it go and be better than this, be better for John.

Sherlock looked at the corner beside the front door, where John’s rugby bag lay neglected, waiting for a day when there was practice--unlike today. His heart constricted, and he raised his bow back to the strings, wishing he knew how to make sense of the mess they’d stumbled into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head hurts. Please don't hate John. XD


	6. Too Bad He's Not Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to be alone,” he murmured.
> 
> Chapter title from "We Are Life" by Emerosa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Long Shot" by Kelly Clarkson; Seb POV  
> -*"We Are Life" by Emerosa; Sherlock POV [final scene]
> 
> Honestly, this chapter has stressed me out. It's important, and I tried to give it all the care and attention it deserved, but letting two weeks go without writing is not good for me. I hope I have given it the appropriate amount of work.
> 
> NOTE: I changed a line in an earlier chapter. The original phrasing implied that John has had no prior sexual experience, which isn't true.

Seb did not bring up his offer again, though he indicated to John through small gestures--lingering touches, private smiles filled with fondness, or an arm left noninvasively behind his shoulders as they sat on the bench--that it remained standing. Two more weeks of classes drifted by, during which time the easy affection and natural connection between them only felt stronger.

John did not know what he was waiting for. He half expected Seb to get tired of wondering what he was thinking, and rescind his words. Part of him knew he needed to simply evaluate his own emotions, make a decision, and let Seb know what he wanted from their relationship.

But it was maddeningly difficult to sort out his own desires. The attraction he felt was real; if he chose to pursue a romantic relationship with Seb, they’d have no trouble with that. It was there, both emotionally and physically, and sometimes he found himself driven a little to distraction by the brush of the other boy’s fingers over his own, or the sensation of Seb’s hard-muscled chest pressing against his in a hug. And there were certainly butterflies--more like bloody bats--swooping in his stomach when he caught that little smile, the one meant just for him. It was almost a smirk, filled with promise and contentment.

And yet, he held back, and although he hated himself for it, he knew it was because of Sherlock. After his failed attempt to casually mention his friendship with his co-captain, Sherlock had made one valiant effort to encourage his social life, asking if he wanted to have his friend--or any of the team--over to the flat.

John had leapt to refuse quickly enough that he’d startled his guardian, a feat he rarely managed. He’d apologized, saying that it wouldn’t be necessary, and it had seemed as if Sherlock was almost wounded by his emphatic response. John only knew that the thought of intentionally bringing Sherlock and Seb into the same room felt far, far more dangerous than he was quite sure he could handle.

The stalemate lasted until a Monday afternoon in early December. Seb had missed school; it was the first time it had happened in the weeks since he’d revealed his feelings. John’s stomach was knotted with worry the entire day, but he’d resisted the urge to text Seb, wanting helplessly to trust that his friend was alright.

It wasn’t until after classes let out that the other boy arrived, striding onto the field in his rugby clothes as the boys warmed up for practice. Everything about him seemed harder, more on edge. His expression was set in a pensive sort of frown, his eyes distant as he distractedly greeted the team as a whole. Victor gave him a quick stare, then a nod, not breaking focus.

John waited for a look, a smile, any personal acknowledgment from Seb, but received none. Frustrated, and struggling not to feel absurdly hurt, he threw himself into the play with single-mindedness. He noticed, though, that Seb seemed to be pushing himself too far, playing harder than usual, as if he needed the exertion to release whatever stress he was feeling.

Afterwards, as the rest of the boys made their way off the field together, Seb excused himself and ducked back toward the bleachers. John had not gone to this hiding place since their conversation a few weeks earlier, but as he watched Seb move that way in fast, measured steps, he sensed the invitation. Concern pushed him to accept, trailing after Seb and ducking down under the wooden structure beside him.

For a long while they sat in silence, Seb staring at the field through the wood slats, and John inwardly debating whether or not he should give Seb a moment while he went and got his phone. Sherlock would know that practice was over by now, and a small guilty part of him thought he should let him know he’d be late. He just wished he knew what to say to break whatever spell was keeping Seb so tense and still.

It startled him when Seb spoke abruptly, still frowning into space, his gaze unfocused. “Do you think it’ll ever happen for you?”

For two seconds his heart stuttered, thinking Seb was finally confronting him about not giving an answer to his proposition. Then the question sank in, the words _for you_ changing the meaning, and John exhaled quietly. Seb was referring to the other part of his declaration--the part where he knew there was “someone else,” someone John wanted but could never have. He’d said he was in a similar situation. The question was not whether John and Seb had a future, but whether he believed there was one for his own “forbidden” love.

John shrugged, his fingers aimlessly plugging at the longer grass that grew under here, compared to the clipped turf of the rugby field. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest as he wondered what had happened to Seb that day to make him ask this.

“It’s a double-edged sword, for me,” he answered finally, glancing sideways to find Seb watching him at last, his blue eyes wide and sad. John didn’t want to be looked at that way, as if he had some truth that Seb needed to hear, but it would be painful to receive. “It hurts to just go on wanting it, and knowing that it’ll never happen--because if it did, if I had it, it could ruin everything.”

He paused, not sure if he should elaborate on that. He didn’t want to; with that description, he might just mean that romantic involvement could end a friendship, and it was probably better for Seb to think that that was the greatest risk John faced with his feelings. If he named Sherlock personally, he was endangering his guardian legally. Sadness rippled through him, and he wished, yet again, that he could forget the way Sherlock used to smile when John got something right about one of his experiments, or the way it felt when his hands--those amazing hands, which could draw the sweetest possible notes from a violin, or handle volatile chemicals with utmost care, or soothe the ache of worrying about his family from John’s tense shoulders--rested gently on John’s back or arm.

There was a flicker of movement, and John turned his head back just as Seb leaned toward him. To his shock, Seb closed the space between them and pressed his lips against John’s.

For a span of five seconds--which felt more like hours--he did not pull back, and Seb did not push forward. They sat frozen, mouths fitted together perfectly, and warmth bloomed in John’s stomach, unfurling toward his limbs, eventually reaching his head and thawing his mind so that he became abruptly aware of what was happening.

Without drawing away he inhaled, shakily, a small whisper of oxygen slipping into his lungs past the gentle pressure of the kiss. Then all reason slipped away again, replaced by a dizzying euphoria, as Seb’s tongue chased the breath into his mouth, darting through his slightly parted lips to taste inside. It was hardly more than a tease, sweet wet warmth brushing against the inside of his lips, and John trembled as he heard a small moan leave himself.

It was a sound of surprise and of pleasure, and it was clearly encouraging to Seb. He became a little more intentional, his mouth opening wider to properly explore John’s, his tongue becoming bolder as it flicked against John’s teeth, asking permission. It was given readily, and John felt himself going soft and pliant as he returned the kiss, happy to let Seb be in charge of it. A breathless sigh escaped him as Seb’s hand was suddenly threading in his hair, gripping gently, but with a sort of tender authority.

John tilted his head in submission, getting more animatedly into the kiss. He could not repress a small, needy whine as Seb nipped lightly at his bottom lip, the slick flesh feeling soft and swollen from his thorough attention.

He could almost literally feel Seb’s excitement mounting, the tension radiating through his muscular body as John surrendered to his touch. Seb was nudging forward, his kisses becoming a little harder, more desperate, and John welcomed it. His spine relaxed, letting Seb guide him slowly down onto his back. John’s hands came up, a little uncertainly, but the hum of pleasure Seb made as his fingers traced along the taller boy’s sides was utterly affirming. The heat of Seb’s body covering his own made John’s head spin.

Then Seb’s hand--the one not still cupped tenderly around his jaw--found his, his thumb and little finger circling John’s wrist loosely, the other fingers stretching over his palm, as if reaching to interlace with his own.

John let his other hand venture further up Seb’s shoulder, gripping where the blade protruded--rather sexily, he couldn’t help thinking--as Seb balanced his weight over John. Seb’s hand in his hair controlled his head, and he tilted it back obediently as Seb’s mouth eventually slid from his, moving down to brush faint kisses over his throat, though to John’s relief he did not bite down.

John was entirely sure how far this was going to go--how far Seb would take it, and at what point he himself might stop it, as he wasn’t really wanting to yet, and things were becoming remarkably more interesting as Seb’s hips aligned with his, and adrenaline pulsed through him at the awareness of how much of their bodies were touching-- _oh_ , yes, _that_...that was very interesting--a small strangled moan was caught in his throat as he felt the pressure of Seb’s--yes, that’s definitely what that was, John’s mind went blank as their erections grazed together, and he had no idea if Seb was even aware he could feel it, it wasn’t as if he was literally rubbing off on John, he was just kissing him, seemingly unaware that his groin was pressing down into John’s, and to be fair it did feel rather amazing--

The chime of Seb’s phone going off, alerting him to a new text message, was almost painfully loud in the silence, which had only been broken by their soft panting and gasps. Both boys froze, Seb’s hips jerking away from John’s as if he’d been shoved sideways. The sudden lack of weight against his own throbbing cock made John shudder, arousal thundering through him and making his chest ache from how his heart was racing.

Seb slowly sat up, easing off of him, and tugged his mobile out of his pocket. Whatever he read made his shoulders stiffen slightly. “Fuck,” he muttered, then swiped a hand over his face and turned to look back down at John. His eyes were bright with regret, and for a heartbeat John felt sick.

“I’m sorry, John,” Seb said, reaching out and laying his hand over John’s. “I don’t--I wish I could--I mean, that was amazing, but I...have to go, I am so sorry.”

Well, that was reassuring. His regret was about the message he’d received, not kissing John. Smiling, the shorter boy sat up shakily, and turned his hand over to lock his fingers with Seb.

“It’s fine, of course it’s fine,” he replied, a little breathlessly. “Don’t worry, Seb.” His smile trembled, the need coursing through him not abating easily, and he knew it was show in his face how badly he _wanted_.

Seb leaned forward, kissing his forehead--his lips were soft and moist, and the pressure felt soothing, like a gentle reassurance--before he released John’s hand with a final quick squeeze, then crawled out of their little hideaway, and began hurrying away across the field.

John sat by himself for a long time, shaking slightly, before he gathered his wits and headed to collect his things. There was an inquiring text waiting from Sherlock, and John stared at the words on his screen, feeling light-headed. He could not think of a decent excuse for being late, or for not texting. He knew, without wanting to examine the certainty, that he could not tell Sherlock about Seb kissing him. Not when he was barely sure of what was going to happen, himself.

* * *

Their winter break was approaching, and John was in a foul mood about it, because it was two whole weeks he’d have to spend cooped up in Baker Street, unable to see Seb daily, and trapped in this miserable silence with Sherlock that he knew neither of them wanted, but neither knew how to break. _What the hell had happened to the easy friendship and steady-burning trust of the summer_?

Seb had messaged him the night they had kissed, and told him he would be busy for the break, and he was so sorry, but he’d still text him every day. John did not want to take out his frustration on either of them, but he did not know what to do. He wasn’t sure what their unexpected, unexplained snog session would mean for he and Seb. Worse, he still could not shake off the deep, hellish longing he felt just being in the same room as Sherlock. His guardian would look at him sometimes, in the evening as they sat each in their own little world, and there would be such sadness and apology in his verdigris eyes that John had to keep his gaze down, to pretend he wasn’t just as sick of the tension so thick it made the air between them feel like quicksand.

He wanted to reach out--to hug Sherlock, to talk to him, anything--but he could not escape the way that just hearing the older man’s low, beautiful voice could leave him as hard and aching as five minutes of snogging Seb had done.

For his part, Sherlock knew something had changed, some first proverbial shoe had dropped, and it was driving him just as mad to watch John wallowing. One afternoon he seemed to snap a little, looking over at where John had not turned the page of his textbook in nearly twenty minutes, and asked softly, “John, are you alright?”

Like dominoes it seemed to sever the thread of control John was holding onto, and he closed his book with a small thud, setting it aside. So many thoughts buzzed in his mind, needing to be voiced, but he could not arrange them in a coherent order.

At last he settled on the easiest and most familiar lie, breezily replying, “Yeah, fine. I’m, uh, going to take a quick walk, get some air.” And then he had no choice but to act on that announcement, which he’d regretted instantly, because it meant standing and passing closely by where Sherlock sat on the sofa, tugging on his jacket and heading out the door.

Left in the resounding silence, Sherlock contemplated the way that John was practically fleeing from him. He closed his eyes with a soft, exhausted sigh. Then he reached into the pocket of his coat, flung over the arm of the couch, and dug out his cigarettes.

He’d used up most of this pack already, and it was only two days old. But today there was fear, as well as the usual slow-simmering frustration and desire; fear that he and John might never recover their comfort with one another, and that whatever was going on, John was slipping away from him for good. One by one, he worked to the rest of the pack, standing at one of the windows of 221B and letting the soothing false calm of the nicotine dull the pain in his chest, and the slight headache that slowed his mind.

It wasn’t until he reached into the little box and came up empty that he paused, staring at the empty carton, and then he glanced at the clock. John had been gone an hour and a half. He supposed he should find something to work on, something to occupy himself, but it was almost certainly a lost cause.

“Fuck it all,” Sherlock said softly, turning to find his shoes. Leaving a note on the coffee table for John--excluding any mention of cigarettes, naturally--he slipped on his coat and left, glancing up and down the footpath for any sign of John, before giving up and heading for the corner shop.

As he he reemerged with a fresh pack, his mobile buzzed in his pocket. Fishing it out, Sherlock’s hope that it was John was replaced with annoyance, and resignation.

“What, Mycroft,” he said in lieu of greeting.

“Sorry, Sherlock.” Mycroft actually sounded apologetic, which was nice of him. Sherlock waited. “I’m sending a car, would you come by the Diogenes? For a late lunch?”

Sherlock glanced at the clock on his phone and snorted. He knew there would just be brandy and cigar smoke and brotherly concern, but it was polite of Mycroft to pretend it was merely a casual request. Oddly, his brother’s interference felt less offensive than usual. If anything, it was a little...comforting, of all things. Sighing, Sherlock voiced his agreement, then hung up and turned to face the car that had already been waiting for Mycroft’s go-ahead.

When Sherlock entered his brother’s small chamber at the Diogenes Club and sank into one of the handsome leather armchairs across the desk, Mycroft frowned at him, his gaze sweeping knowingly over his sibling. Without a word he rose, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh as his brother turned to the window and tugged it open a few inches, letting in some fresh air. _It isn’t as if the air inside is particularly smoke-free_ , he couldn’t help wanting to snap.

Sitting back down, Mycroft smiled dryly, no doubt reading Sherlock’s mind. “It’s been a decade since you smelled _this_ strongly of menthol, brother dear. Do we need another intervention?”

That made Sherlock smirk, despite himself, and he accepted the glass of brandy he was offered. He did not bother replying. He didn’t feel like saying anything, really, because he knew that Mycroft could read it in his face and his movements; his frustration was because of John, and while they both knew it, he was not ready to face saying it out loud.

* * *

As their last week of classes drew to a close before the break, John found himself fixating once more on who it was that could be hurting Seb. They were sitting at the table outside the school, pressed close together for warmth as the others laughed and chatted around them. John was trying not to grin as Seb’s leg bumped and brushed against his rather intentionally. Their hands rested on the tabletop side-by-side, and every so often their fingers would graze each other, sending little sparks of awareness shooting up John’s arms.

There were more bruises today, he’d seen them, fingertip-shaped blue smudges on the insides of Seb’s wrists, as if someone had pinned his arms down, hard. John wanted to reach out and touch them, but restrained himself, leaning closer to keep his words between the two of them.

“What’s your home life like, Seb?” he asked softly. “You’ve never said--just that you’re lottery, too, but who do you live with?”

John had been really hoping quite futilely that it would be an easy answer, and that Seb’s harm was not coming from someone who lived with him, perhaps even took care of him. That was shattered, though, when Seb drew away from him fractionally, a flash of fear flaring in his eyes before his smile returned, though a little tighter than before.

“Doesn’t matter,” he answered at a normal volume, using the tone John had come to think of as the Don’t Ask That voice. He knew all of these symptoms, understood that Seb was being abused, but he did not know how to make the other boy want his help.

“Do you have siblings?” he tried instead, and when Seb looked at him oddly, he gave him a small smile, trying to convey that this was just conversation, simple getting-to-know kind of things.

Seb stared at him for a long moment, then huffed a laugh and shook his head. “It’s just me,” he replied. Then he let his head drop onto John’s shoulder.

Over his shaggy blonde hair, John caught Molly glancing at them slyly, and she grinned at him when their eyes met. Sticking his tongue out at her in teasing reprimand, John wrapped an arm around Seb.

Tilting his head, he gently kissed the spiky blonde hair tickling his cheek. “You don’t have to be alone,” he murmured, and to his relief he felt Seb nod, ever-so-slightly, before nuzzling closer against him.

* * *

Around nine that evening, John was sitting at the far end of the couch from Sherlock. He had just had the thought that things felt less awful than usual--it was almost pleasant, sitting together reading, only a few feet between them--when their doorbell rang, and then rang again, sharp and demanding.

Sherlock blinked slowly, as if he’d come out of a deep reverie, and frowned at the door. “What the hell?”

John shrugged, as nonplussed as he was, then pushed himself up when the ring came again, fast and pulsing, as if someone was hitting the buzzer over and over. For Mrs. Hudson’s sake, John hurried down the stairs, frowning at the shadow outside the glass.

To his shock he found Seb outside, leaning one-handed on the wall with his finger on the bell, his face dark and unhappy. Even in the shadowy light of the streetlamp, John could clearly make out the bruise beginning to darken the taller boy’s jaw, and there was a handprint around his raised wrist. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, swollen a little, as if he had been crying.

John reached for his hand instinctively, but Seb pulled it back, staring at him anxiously. “I’m sorry,” he said in a slightly choked voice. “I--I wouldn’t have, but--we--me and the old man, we had a fight. Didn’t know...where else to go.”

Pain pinched in John’s chest, and he threw himself forward, wrapping his arms awkwardly around his friend, feeling him tense at the contact. “Of course you should be here,” he said firmly, drawing back to stare into Seb’s eyes. “You can stay here, of course, come on up.” Tugging on his hand, trying to avoid touching the bruise, John turned and led Seb inside, and up the stairs.

It wasn’t until he was pushing open the door to 221B that it occurred to him that this was, in fact, bringing Seb and Sherlock directly into contact, for the first time. But it was too late, Sherlock was coming out of the kitchen with a mug of tea, his forehead creasing at the sight of the second boy trailing into the flat with his hand clasped in John’s.

“Uh,” John said intelligently, and Sherlock’s eyes leapt to his face, one brow rising expectantly. John swallowed. “Sherlock, this is--this is Seb, one of my team captains. He’s--my friend. He needs a place to stay tonight, he--had a fight with his...guardian.” He didn’t know if that’s who Seb had meant by “old man,” but seeing as Seb was a lottery student, it seemed likely. Seb did not correct him.

Confusion and wariness were apparent in Sherlock’s pale eyes, and he glanced again at their interlocked hands. But after a heartbeat he nodded, looking back up at John. “Of course,” he said lightly, sinking slowly into his armchair.

Listening to John close the front door and return to Seb's side, Sherlock was tempted to move to the kitchen where he'd left his computer--to hide, however twisted that instinct was--but he felt uneasy about letting John out of his sight, with this boy in their home.

John led Seb to the sofa and got him to sit, then dug up one of Mrs. Hudson’s many borrowed blankets and tucked it around him. Finding the telly remote, he turned on something quiet, then handed it to Seb with a soft promise to be right back.

Hurrying into the kitchen, he grabbed the leftover toast and tea from his and Sherlock’s own late supper, throwing it on a tray and carrying it back out. He knew Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he said nothing to his guardian, more worried about Seb than he was afraid of having them both here, together.

From his chair, Sherlock watched as John set the food on the coffee table and sat beside Seb, and listened to the soft sounds of the food and tea being consumed. There was a clink of a cup being set down, and he heard John’s voice, soft and kind, but also almost pleading. “Do you want to tell me?”

Seb shook his head mutely, and there was fear in his eyes. John took his hand quickly--he could feel the strong fingers trembling against his own, and it broke his heart--and he smiled reassuringly. “It’s completely fine, Seb, you don’t have to,” he said, hating the relief that filled those sad blue eyes. “You’re safe here.”

After a long moment, Seb nodded, relaxing a little, and he turned his hand over to return John’s grip.

Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened as he watched the exchange, and he stood before he had really consciously made the decision, turning to duck into the kitchen. With his back to the sofa, he did not see the way John’s gaze jumped to his retreating back, less focused on Seb than Sherlock had perhaps realized.

After several tortuous minutes of  trying to focus on his computer screen, Sherlock was drawn back to the kitchen doorway by the sound of the two boys laughing quietly. Glancing around the corner, he was startled to see that John had his head resting on Seb’s shoulder as they watched the telly, and Seb had an arm around John, his hand absently stroking through the shorter blonde hair. They were smiling, talking occasionally over the low volume of the telly, and Seb playfully poked a finger against the side of John’s head. Reaching up, John caught his hand, holding onto it as it settled against his collarbone.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock drew back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and trying to catch his breath.

Logically, he knew that he was seeing was a good thing; John needed someone his own age, and being with Seb would be better for him, in the long run. What was happening on the sofa was not first-time contact. It was clear to him now that this was why John had been withdrawing from him, slowly and steadily, since August. He had a crush on someone his own age, something healthy and normal that had reminded him of the appropriate guardian/ward dynamic that was meant to exist between himself and Sherlock. John had pulled away from him for both of their good.

Sherlock knew that he should be pleased for the maturity that John was showing, and happy that he had this budding new relationship. But all he felt was sad. John really had been the only person he could have imagined letting in, even if it was something that never could have been. Not the way he had truly wanted it to be.

Eventually the soft voices and laughter from the living room faded to silence. Morbidly curious-- _please don’t let them be snogging right there on the sofa_ \--Sherlock looked in once more.

They were both asleep, their hands tightly clasped on top of the worn blanket. John’s head remained on Seb’s shoulder, with the taller boy’s cheek resting against his hair. There was such peace in both their expressions--despite the prominent bruise that Sherlock suddenly noticed, with a sickening jolt, was spreading across Seb’s jaw. _A fight with his guardian, indeed._ _That explained a lot_.

Something sweet and sad burst in his chest, and Sherlock felt a bittersweet smile touch his own mouth as he observed them together. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, trying to steel his heart to the fact that John had wordlessly chosen a better path for himself. Crossing the room to where the two lay sleeping, Sherlock pulled his coat from the rack, laying it gently over John to keep him warm. Then he turned, heading back toward his own room, for once voluntarily wanting simply to succumb to sleep.

With his back to the two of them, Sherlock did not see Seb’s eyes open a fraction, blinking drowsily before he glanced down at the coat covering his still-sleeping companion. His gaze leapt to Sherlock’s back, watching without a sound as Sherlock walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are watching Doctor Who in the final scene. John's favorite Doctor is David Tennant because he likes a martyr. Seb's is Matt Smith because he prefers lighthearted heroes.
> 
> Also you may notice that I keep increasing the chapter count. At this point there are 13 chapters and an epilogue, most likely to be added as "chapter 14." So, yay. :)


	7. Send Away for a Perfect World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John’s the first good thing to ever happen to me, really, and I can’t help but want more of that.”
> 
> Chapter title from "45" by Shinedown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Two Princes" by Spin Doctors; both Seb & Sherlock POV  
> -"45" by Shinedown; John POV
> 
> I am so sorry it's been nearly a month! I won't let that happen again!
> 
> Chapter warning for underage death (minor character).

The glare of early morning sunlight, as well as the rattle of traffic in the road below, woke Seb first the next day. For several seconds he was bewildered, unsure of where he was or how he got there.

Then he felt John shift against his shoulder, mumbling something incoherent, and his flight to Baker Street the night before came rushing back. Grimacing, he raised the arm not supporting John’s weight to wipe his hand down his face, wondering how bad it would be when he got home. He’d never stayed out without permission before. Of course, he’d never have permission to stay out, anyway.

But that didn’t matter. What did matter, he decided, smiling slightly as another drowsy mumble distracted him, was the boy still sleeping soundly against his side. As Seb gingerly pulled himself up a little on the squashy sofa, John muttered a sleepy protest and squirmed closer. At the same time, his fingers clutched a little more tightly at the heavy coat still tucked around him.

Seb watched him for a moment, feeling the familiar hot wriggle of _want_ and _worry_ that he always experienced when he looked at John. There was so much that he wished he could say--that he wished he knew _how_ to say--to the other boy. But instead, he was left just gazing at him hungrily, and longing for a normal relationship.

John sniffled softly, tucking his face into Seb’s shoulder to block out the daylight. Smiling faintly, Seb raised his free hand, carefully brushing John’s lengthening blonde hair back from his face. As his fingers stroked over John’s cheekbones, the other boy frowned in his sleep, his lips moving soundlessly. Staring at that mouth--trying and failing not to remember, with a hot rush, what it had felt like to kiss it--Seb realized with a funny little jolt in his stomach that John was silently mouthing, “ _Sherlock_.”

A sigh slipped from him, betraying the twist of sadness he felt. He’d meant what he’d told John, about being happy to have any amount of him that he could--even if he was only ever second-place, that was okay. It was obvious he was right about there being someone else, someone who’d stolen John’s heart before Seb had even met him. But he’d hoped that his other suspicion--the gnawing certainty of who it was that John so helplessly loved first--had been wrong. _Seems not_.

Swallowing back the lump of pain--what good would it do to hurt over it? At least John had some love left for him--Seb gingerly moved John’s weight off of himself, tenderly tilting the other boy so that his head lolled onto the couch, face turned away from the sun. Seb arranged him more comfortably, tucking the collar of Sherlock’s coat snugly around his shoulders. His mind flashed back to the intense solemnity he’d glimpsed in the older man’s face as he’d turned away the night before, after he had covered John. There had been longing, too...which Seb understood far, far too well.

The faint click of a lighter--I sound he heard plenty at home, and usually flinched away from--caught Seb’s ear, and he straightened up, turning to look at the doorway into what he assumed was their kitchen. It took a small burst of willpower to remind himself that life here was nothing like his own home, and he did not necessarily have to fear the man who was just around the corner. Drawing in a steadying breath, he tugged his t-shirt straight and crossed the room.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, taking a long drag from a newly-lit cigarette. A cup of tea sat untouched beside his hand, and bread and jam were laid out on the counter beside the toaster, waiting for the boys.

Without asking, Seb entered and moved to make himself some toast, his shoulders tensing slightly at the vulnerable feeling of turning his back on the other man.

As the bread warmed, he finally turned around, relaxing marginally, and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms as he faced Sherlock. For his part, Sherlock remained as he’d been, still smoking, and studying Seb with no expression. Only his eyes betrayed his sharp focus, trained thoughtfully on Seb as the teen made himself at home.

It took another deep breath for Seb to find his voice. He spoke quietly, so as to not disturb John in the next room. “I told John once that I could sympathize with one-sided love. That’s how we got to be so close, sharing that...that kind of ache.” He paused, looking at Sherlock expectantly, but the older man merely raised an eyebrow in mild challenge.

Seb chuckled, the sound breathy and regretful. “But it’s not really the case, for him, is it? It’s not one-sided, the love he feels. It’s just...impossible.” He was silent for a moment, frowning at his own sock-clad feet against the tile floor, then shook his head as if dislodging an unwanted thought.

“I wondered--what with him being a lotto kid too, with an unmarried guardian--and the fact that he never talks about anyone from any old schools--I wondered if it would be you. I didn’t want to assume. It’s not a common problem in the system, obviously, or they wouldn’t allow single guardian scenarios. But no one else seemed as likely.” He stopped, raising his eyes to catch the flash of unease in Sherlock’s face, and made a sound that was half-sigh, half-laughter.

“I’m sorry for you, you know--truthfully. John is...well, he’s amazing, and I know that you know that.” Sherlock tipped his head in affirmation, taking another long drag, and Seb bit his lip. “You would if you could, I imagine.” His gaze dropped after making the bold statement, but he looked up at Sherlock through his lashes, nodding slightly at the pinched look on the older man’s face. “But I think he assumes you’ve never really thought about it, so he doesn’t want to ask for anything more.”

Sherlock’s mind whirled, even the nicotine failing to soothe the storm that raged in his thoughts at Seb’s words. The idea that even in this...relationship, whatever it was between the two teenagers--that even in this, John was preoccupied first with Sherlock himself--and Seb wasn’t put off by that--changed Sherlock’s perception of the two completely. He realized he’d been wrong, the night before. John had not chosen Seb in order to shut down any possibilities between them, but because he assumed that Sherlock did not feel the same way for him. Or at least, he was too afraid to find out.

The day that he had overheard John in the shower now felt very long ago.

The silence between them broke as the toaster button dinged, but Seb didn’t turn around. Putting out his half-finished cigarette, Sherlock stared at the teen, trying to make sense of this competitor for John’s affection. “Do you...plan to tell John that his feelings are returned?” he asked at last, knowing that Seb understood he was referring to how John felt about Sherlock, not himself.

A small smirk twisted up the corners of Seb’s mouth, the expression both triumphant, and a touch sad. “I’m quite sure that John _knows_ it, subconsciously anyway,” he replied, turning at last to apply some butter and jam to his toast. Sherlock noticed the rigidity in his shoulders return as the youth put his back to him, but he was distracted by Seb’s confidence that John knew.

Seb pressed on. “That isn’t the problem. He just can’t admit to himself that it _is_ mutual, because if he does then he will push you for more, and you’ll both be screwed--and not in the fun way.”

That made Sherlock snort with laughter, albeit bitterly, and Seb wore a dry grin as he came to the table with his toast. Pushing the plate aside immediately, he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Mind if I have one?” he asked, nodding at the pack of cigarettes resting by Sherlock’s tea. Without hesitation, Sherlock tugged one free and offered it.

As Seb lit the cigarette, he looked at Sherlock over the flickering lighter and frowned slightly. “I’m not as lucky as John is,” he stated with the first exhalation of smoke. “There are days when I think, maybe, that the person I want does care for me, genuinely...but he’s just not the sentimental type. I have to take what I can get in terms of affection from him.”

Sherlock’s gaze leapt to the clear imprint of finger-shaped bruises, standing out darkly on Seb’s bare wrist as he took a long drag from the cigarette. “Is that a ‘scrap of affection,’ in your experience?” he asked, his tone deceptively light.

Seb’s lips tightened, and he rested the hand holding the cigarette over the marks, hiding them from view. His voice came out a little softer. “I’ve...found myself under the power of someone just a little sadistic, I’ll admit.” Another drag, another slow exhale of pale smoke. “I learned to laugh it off in the public eye.”

“Last night, you chose not to tell John what you’re suffering,” Sherlock observed. “Any of it, I presume, or I think he would have told me it was happening.” He raised an eyebrow, nudging the ash tray across the table for Seb’s convenience. “Interesting that you would choose to disclose anything to me."

Seb smiled drily. “I’ve heard plenty about you, Mr. Holmes. Not much slips by you, from what I’m told, so...why not?” He tilted his head back, watching the smoke that trickled from his lips drift lazily toward the open kitchen window. “As for John, I’m....I’m learning to let him in. It’s rather terrifying, you know, how much I want to trust him, to tell him everything.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, Seb lowered his eyes to meet the older man’s gaze again. “John’s the first good thing to ever happen to me, really, and I can’t help but want more of that.” At the continued lack of reply, Seb sighed, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, the half-smoked cigarette still tucked between his fingers. “I don’t plan to stop pursuing him. I think it’s safe to assume that you won’t risk having him taken away from you by crossing that line yourself--or risk damaging John himself, in the long run, with a relationship that could just as easily hurt him as help him.”

Frustration bubbled up, pushing Sherlock to open his mouth, ready to retort--after all, wasn’t this self-pitying, half-sincere intimacy between John and Seb just as harmful as it would be for John to be involved with Sherlock, to hell with the age gap? But at that moment they heard John stir sleepily in the living room, followed by the soft thump of his feet on the floor as he stood up. Seb ground out the last of his cigarette immediately, starting in on his toast as if that would conceal the scent of it on his breath. Scowling, Sherlock sat back in his chair in silence.

John entered the kitchen, smiling sleepily at them both as he rounded the table behind Seb. He dropped a hand onto his shoulder in greeting, squeezing gently. Reaching up, Seb caught his fingers, holding them tenderly even as his gaze jumped to Sherlock, as if daring him to comment.

As John waited for the kettle to boil, he sniffed the air, frowned, then glanced at the still-open window. Turning back toward the table, he stared at Sherlock in disbelief. For a moment, it was quiet, aside from Seb softly eating his toast.

“Are you alright?” John asked at last, worry and consternation in his blue eyes, his voice tight with annoyance over the cigarettes.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, offering a tight smile. “Perfectly fine,” he replied, then drew out another cigarette and lit it. If John wanted to voice a protest, he suppressed it, and Sherlock looked down, trying not to feel anything in particular.

* * *

Everything changed on the last day of classes before winter break.

The wintry afternoon sunlight made a valiant effort to combat the chill as John and Molly left the school together, heading toward the usual table, walking close together for warmth. Molly was animatedly describing a forensics program she was considering applying to, with John nodding and making affirmational noises intermittently, when they saw Sarah running toward them from the direction of the athletic field.

It was clear she was in a panic before she had even drawn near enough to call their names, and John reached out to steady her as she slowed to a halt beside them, catching her breath.

“What’s up, Sarah?” Molly’s face had paled at the shock on Sarah’s face, and her voice was tight with concern.

“Someone--oh, my God,” Sarah gasped out, reaching up to smooth her mussed hair back from her face. “Someone was killed on school grounds!”

Molly gave a tiny gasp, hands flying to her mouth, and John went utterly still. Sarah seemed to gather her wits, her hands gesturing wildly as she tried to explain. “Well, I don’t know if they were actually killed here. They found a student--I think she’s a transfer--they found her body in one of the sheds.” She nodded back toward the athletic field. “Come on, we should--everyone’s out there.”

John nodded, pausing to glance at Molly as Sarah turned to lead the way. “You okay?” he asked worriedly. “If it seems too creepy--”

Molly merely shot him a hard, silencing look. “I was just going to say that that program I was telling you about has me thinking I might like to become a coroner, someday. I’m not squeamish, come on.”

By the time they reached the athletic shed, a large crowd of students was assembled, straining to see past the tape perimeter that the police had established. John could see several of the teachers and school staff, including Miss Adler, standing in a small huddle listening to a grey-haired man, who looked like he must have aged ten years just entering the crime scene. Even at a distance, the dark circles and tired lines around his eyes were apparent.

There was nudging and mutters as several students pushed through to reach the three of them. John barely glanced over as Sally and Anderson joined them, followed by Victor, and then an obviously terrified Henry. Wordlessly Molly reached out to hug him, and John felt yet another surge of warmth for his friend’s compassion.

Sally was practically glowing with excitement, completely in her element as she launched into her story. “I know who it was!” she crowed, keeping her voice low so that the faculty and police wouldn’t hear. “Me and Anderson found her--” John and Molly exchanged a glance behind Sally’s shoulder, having no trouble guessing what the couple had been up to in the privacy of the sheds. “--took me a minute, since I hardly ever talked to her, but it’s Jennifer Wilson! She’s--well, _was_ \--sixteen, and really obsessed with pink, honestly. She wasn’t at school today--and she’s dead as nails now, just inside the door a few feet, sprawled out on the ground. Before he shooed us away I heard the Detective Inspector say something about _poison_ \--isn’t it _thrilling_?”

Looking at the ashen faces of the police officers, and the stress practically visibly radiating off of the grey-haired fellow--John wondered if he was the Detective Inspector--he couldn’t help but want to shake Sally, and snap that _no, it wasn’t thrilling, someone is_ dead. How could she be so naive? A cold shudder ran down his spine, numbing his fingertips, and John found himself staring into the dark opening of the shed doorway, wondering why someone would want to murder a teenager.

The headmistress was approaching the line, and several students shifted out of the way to bare a path to Molly. Miss Adler was thorough, giving them all an attentive look-over to see if anyone was visibly in shock, before she reached her ward’s side. “Are you alright, Molly?” she asked softly, for a moment looking less like a firm and disciplined schoolmistress and more like a parent.

Molly nodded, still keeping a reassuring arm around Henry. “All fine. What’s going to happen?”

Miss Adler glanced around at the small group, her tone brisk, but kind. “All of your parents and guardians have been informed of this tragedy, and asked to please come and collect you. Just wait here in the athletic field to be picked up--and do stay out of the way for the police,” she added, giving Victor a reprimanding look that had him shuffling back from where he’d been leaning over the tape, trying to see into the shed.

John moved away from the perimeter, not sure he wanted to try and see what was happening inside. He and Molly and Sarah sat in a small circle with Henry and Victor, sharing heat and waiting in silence, listening to Sally eagerly recount her morbid tale to any students willing to listen.

Gradually parents and guardians arrived, crossing the field to notify Miss Adler and claim their students, until John found himself sitting alone between Molly and Victor. Abruptly he realized that he had not seen Seb since lunch that day, and he was nowhere to be seen now.

Clamping down on a sudden shiver of fear, John focused on his breathing, letting the voices around him wash over his head.

When Sherlock arrived, John stood shakily, cold and stiff, but deeply relieved to see his guardian. If there was one person who could help him keep his head when the situation felt this big and complex, it was Sherlock. When Sherlock reached him, he said nothing, just put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, searching his face until he seemed satisfied that John was okay.

At the angle they were standing at, John noticed with an unpleasant shiver, Jennifer Wilson’s body was partially visible, several feet into the shed just as Sally had said.

Sherlock glanced over, his eyes hardening as he studied the crime scene, lingering on the body for a moment before turning to focus on John.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low, and rippled with concern. All of the tension and resentment that had simmered between them for the last several weeks seemed to drip away, leaving them in a moment as raw as the day when they’d stood in the hospital, knowing that John was slowly losing his mother.

The teenager looked at him with eyes that were much older than seventeen, his gaze hard and wise with the awareness of death. “I’m fine,” said softly, then surprised them both by reaching up to place his own hand over Sherlock’s. The coldness between them had been frustrating and uncomfortable, but until that moment--until he had felt such a flood of relief at the sight of his guardian--John had not known how badly it had _hurt_. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to have his friend’s unfailing support back.

Sherlock glanced at their hands, and his fingers tightened on John’s shoulder, as if he was answering the unspoken plea with a silent _I’m here_.

The moment was broken when a voice called out for the Detective Inspector, and the grey-haired man raised his head and crossed back to the officer near the shed door. Sherlock’s eyes landed on him, narrowing slightly as he watched the D.I. circle the body.

“John, do you mind staying for a moment?” he asked, and John heard it then, the undercurrent that he used to hear in Sherlock’s voice when there was something to solve, the mix of excitement and focus that Sherlock always exhibited when he had a puzzle to work out. “If you’re really alright,” his guardian added, his expression torn between interest in the case, and concern for John’s well-being.

John offered him a quick smile, nodding and nudging him forward. “Go. It’ll drive you mad if you don’t.”

Eyes brightening, Sherlock turned and strode across the grass to the shed, crossing the tape barrier and ignoring the officer who stepped forward, calling a protest. Before he could be stopped, Sherlock reached the Detective Inspector, shaking off the officer’s hand and offering his own to the grey-haired man.

“Sherlock Holmes. I can be of assistance to you with this case. If you need a reference, you can contact Mycroft Holmes--he has an office at the Diogenes Club.”

The Detective Inspector arched one thick eyebrow, gesturing to the officer to back down. He eyed Sherlock speculatively for a moment. “I know the man,” he replied at last. “Going by the name I can imagine he’d vouch for you. D.I. Lestrade. How is it you think you can help me, Mr. Holmes?”

Without answering, Sherlock stepped around him into the shed, studying the body intently. John had slipped across the tape line as well, unnoticed, and was hovering several feet back, watching with half-morbid curiosity, half-pride as Sherlock prowled the scene, leaning over to inspect Jennifer Wilson’s body at different angles. John almost smiled at the obvious restraint Sherlock shows by not touching as he investigated, but he managed to keep his ungloved hands to himself.

At last Sherlock turned back around, nodding to himself as he faced Lestrade. “She’s wearing cheap knock-off clothing brands; she tries to follow current trends on a limited budget. She’s put a lot of work into her hair and nails, and compared to the clothing, she’s wearing fairly expensive jewelry--there’s a gold necklace, real pearl earrings, and a gold bracelet. Silver rings, too--and they’re much better cared-for than her clothes. Most likely she has a wealthy lover providing for her--”

Lestrade made a strangled sound of protest, cutting him off. “Bloody hell, you can’t make accusations like that against a dead kid, Holmes.”

From the doorway--which he’d managed to reach without being stopped by the distracted officer--John scoffed, a little too loudly. Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned toward him--Sherlock looking surprised, as if he hadn’t realized that John wasn’t right beside him, and Lestrade seeming torn between irritation, and worry over John being traumatized by his classmate’s corpse.

Feeling a little spotlit--he couldn’t just apologize and back away--John stepped inside, walking toward Sherlock. The officer in the room finally caught on and reached out to stop him, but Sherlock waved him away without a glance. His eyes were on John. The officer glanced in confusion from Sherlock to Lestrade, and the D.I. heaved a sigh, then nodded to him to let it stand.

John couldn’t help the testy edge in his voice as he met the D.I.’s gaze, feeling distinctly aware of his youth as he faced the older man. “It’s just, Sherlock doesn’t get it wrong--if that’s what he sees, then that’s the facts. And to be fair, teenagers _aren’t_ children--we can be just as capable as adults of carrying on mature relationships, physically and emotionally.”

As he spoke, John’s eyes slid to meet Sherlock’s, a little uncertainly. Staring back at John, processing his words, Sherlock licked his lips--and noticed, with a hot shiver that raced unhelpfully down his spine, that John’s gaze leapt to his mouth, following the motion of his tongue. For a few short seconds, they stared at one another, and in the stillness between them it felt as if the last five months had quietly bled away, bringing them back to where they’d been that summer, before John had returned to school.

Lestrade cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable with John’s statement. As if shaking himself awake, Sherlock slowly turned back to the body, drawing in a deep, steadying breath as he found his train of thought again. “Right. Well--she was likely only using whoever it is for money--undoubtedly, keeping them a secret from her parents or guardians. No pockets in this sweater--” He jerked his chin toward Wilson’s prone form. “--so she most likely had a purse of some sort with her; is it in her locker?”

Behind John, still hovering awkwardly near the doorway, the officer piped up. “Her locker’s been checked. There wasn’t any purse listed among her effects.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely, his eyes on Wilson’s body. “That’s important. She doesn’t have her mobile on her--it’s most likely with the bag, wherever that’s gone.”

Lestrade sounded exhausted. “Maybe she didn’t have a mobile.”

“Of course she has a mobile,” Sherlock retorted, hardly sparing him more than a quick, condescending glance. “A wealthy older lover her parents can’t know about? Obviously.” Ignoring Lestrade’s startled expression, Sherlock resumed eyeing Wilson accusingly, as if she was purposefully withholding information from him.

The silence in the shed was broken by the unexpected sound of Anderson’s voice, jarringly loud as he suddenly poked his head around the doorframe, speaking past the officer who jumped to intervene, raising his arms unhelpfully to try and shuffle the other teen away. “She wrote on the floor before she died--we saw it,” he said, looking quite proud of himself, despite the circumstances. “Clawed it into the floorboard. _Rache_. That’s German for revenge,” he added, smugly, as if his linguistic knowledge was going to change everything.

Scowling, Sherlock strode over and pushed the shed door closed, shutting Anderson out. The officer jumped back just in time, and the four men were left squinting in the hot light of the crime scene lamps angled toward Jennifer Wilson’s corpse.

Lestrade frowned, narrowing his hands at the floor near Wilson’s hand, where John now saw that there was, in fact, roughly scratched letters etched into the floorboard. His stomach twisted and squeezed with nausea as he noticed how mangled her hot pink nails were from the effort of writing it.

“ _Rache_?” Lestrade said aloud, as if testing out the foreign word.

“Of course it isn’t _rache_ ,” Sherlock retorted derisively, whipping out his mobile and typing rapidly. “I don’t know what it means yet, but I’ll work that out, too.”

The shed door abruptly swung open again, making them all blink at the sudden sunlight streaming back in. Miss Adler strode in, glancing in surprise at John, and then at Sherlock, before turning her focus to Lestrade. “Jennifer Wilson’s parents have arrived,” she said quietly. “Would you go speak to them first?"

Weariness pinched the Detective Inspector’s face as he nodded, sighing once more. “Right. I’ll be back to talk with you more, Mr. Holmes.” Tugging his coat more tightly around himself, Lestrade stepped around John and headed outside.

Miss Adler turned back to Sherlock then, and a cool, professional smile turned up the corners of her bright red lips as she studied him. “Irene Adler,” she introduced herself, extending one hand, which Sherlock accepted in a brief shake. “Are you with the police--Mr. Holmes, was it?”

Sherlock nodded distractedly, still more focused on the body than on the woman speaking to him. “Not formally,” he replied. “But I’m probably better equipped than half of their officers to assist with this.”

To John’s confusion, Miss Adler sidled closer to Sherlock, leaning into his space as he continued evaluating Jennifer Wilson. “Is that so?” the headmistress asked, her tone bordering rather indecently on charming, considering that they were standing above the dead body of one of her students. “Do you make that a regular pastime, helping solve murders?”

A grim smile flickered over Sherlock’s mouth, and for the first time he gave her his full attention as he glanced back up. “When I do I’m usually mistaken for the murderer, what with how much I can deduce about the crime from the evidence. I’ve opted to leave it to the incompetents in the past.”

Miss Adler laughed softly, a sharp-edged tinkling sound that made John grit his teeth. “Well. I must say, I’m glad Scotland Yard has someone so...fascinating...assisting them this time.”

Watching Sherlock appear so unconcerned with his headmistress’s horribly-timed flirting, John’s frown deepened swiftly into a scowl. On a terrible, guilty, selfish level, he found himself wondering if this was Sherlock reacting to how he had behaved with Seb the other night--but John brushed the thought away with an angry little shake of his head, disgusted with himself. _How could he imagine something so childish, or think so little of Sherlock_?

From the doorway, an officer leaned in and called Miss Adler’s name. “The Detective Inspector asks if you can come help with the parents.”

Like a switch thrown, Miss Adler seemed to return to the present situation. She offered Sherlock a tight smile, shaking his hand a second time. “Pleasure, Mr. Holmes, and I look forward to working with you.” Turning, she swept out of the shed after the officer, seeming not to even notice John this time.

After another moment’s hard stare around the crime scene, Sherlock finally turned back to John. The weight of his focus suddenly prickled at John’s skin, and he had the bizarre urge to turn away, to hide from his guardian’s gaze. “Are you ready to go home?” Sherlock asked him softly.

John opened his mouth, intending to say yes--he was more than ready to be away from here at last--when Lestrade reappeared, stepping inside and jerking his chin at Sherlock. “Can I have a mo’?” he asked, his voice hoarse. John wondered how badly the Wilsons had reacted to their daughter’s death.

Sherlock nodded at the D.I., giving John’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he left the shed, following Lestrade to one side of the tape perimeter.

Pivoting to face him, Lestrade thrust his hands into his pockets, looking worn out. “Her parents confirmed that she always carried a purse when she was out, and that she had a smartphone with a passcode. It was the only thing they worried about, apparently--not knowing why she locked her phone.” Sherlock snorted, but Lestrade just made a face and pressed on.

“When I mentioned it, they also said--with surprise--that they had noticed she’d been coming home with nice jewelry, only just recently. They had no idea where it came from. I reassured them about it--well, there’s no sense making them fret about her having a lover, she was sixteen bloody years old,” he said shortly, when Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “It’s the age of consent, but that won’t make it easier on grieving parents.” Lestrade stared at him for a moment, his eyes sharp. “Will you help us with this? You got it all right so far, and I’m curious what else you can contribute to the investigation.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting the handshake that was offered to seal the deal. Even if he had not been thoroughly intrigued by the case, he would have agreed. He needed to keep an eye on this situation, and to find out who would stoop so low as to kill innocent-- _well, innocent enough_ \--teenagers. If nothing else, he needed to be sure that John stayed safe.

As he waited for Sherlock to finish with Lestrade, John stood on the field just beyond the tape line, hands in his pockets and face ducked into his jacket collar against the chill. He couldn’t help but continue scanning the area in case Seb had turned up at some point, even though it was highly unlikely, considering school had already been out when this mess started.

Then with a small start, he saw him. Seb was standing on the very edge of the field, beside the road. A nondescript black car was pulled up to the curb, and Seb stood beside the open door to the back seat, facing a black-haired man in a tailored black suit. Even from a distance, it was clear the exchange was becoming heated, Seb’s hands gesturing with growing agitation as he seemed to argue with his companion. For his part, the older man seemed unfazed by Seb’s anger, barely moving aside from a slight tilting of his head.

Mid-sentence, Seb turned his head, and suddenly caught sight of John staring at him. His hand, which had been half-raised into a frustrated fist, rose a little higher as if he was going to wave--and then he seemed to catch himself, jerking his arm back down to his side. His face went strangely blank, and he turned away from John abruptly, twisting to climb into the back of the car.

Holding the door open, the man in the suit turned around, looking toward John. As he stared at him, an almost chilling smile crossed his face, and John’s stomach gave an odd little flop under the cold weight of that gaze. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself as the stranger followed Seb into the car, and then it pulled away and disappeared into the traffic.

The car was long gone when Sherlock finally rejoined him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Ready?” he asked apologetically, and John nodded quickly, giving him a tight smile.

As they crossed the field, heading back toward Baker Street, John gave in to the tugging need for stability that stung under his skin, shifting closer and leaning into Sherlock as they walked, pressing slightly into his side. Sherlock looked down at him in surprise, worry darkening his icy blue eyes, and he opened his mouth to ask, wondering if John was perhaps still going to go into shock after the events of the afternoon.

But the words died when he saw that John was not even looking at him--he seemed unconcerned with the possibility that Sherlock might push him away. And there was really no reason why he would, Sherlock realized. John was not crying or speaking, not scared or upset. He was simply asking for strength.

Lifting his arm--not breaking their pace--Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders, supporting his friend’s weight as they crossed the street together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, notes. First, I don't know if this needs a warning, but there will be sexual content in the next chapter. I'm kind of going from 0 to 60mph, it'll be my usual kind of smut, truthfully.
> 
> Second, regarding this chapter, I feel the need to state a disclaimer apologizing for Sally and Irene probably both coming across as horrible people. I actually adore both characters. But Sally is a kid, and not the nicest one. And Irene...I guess it's kind of inexcusable. I apologize for her.
> 
> Lastly, announcing the next two multi-chapter stories I'll be posting! As usual, there will be one-shots and continuations posted intermittently, but these are the next big projects. In order:
> 
> 1\. A blackmail-marriage AU in which retired-soldier John is employed as a bodyguard for Sherlock, who is the bored and unhappy husband of Charles Magnussen.
> 
> 2\. Another AU (similar to TWAA, but without ABO dynamics) following the events of The Great Game, in which John and Sherlock were together in college before Sherlock's drug addiction drove them apart, and years later, Sherlock's recommendation gets John hired with him on a case involving a ghost from their shared past.
> 
> I think those are the important notes. Thanks for sticking with me, guys, your readership means the world. Please comment! I REALLY need affirmation that it's worth posting, that you guys are enjoying this, even if it's just "Keep going!" :)


	8. We Ain't Gonna Live Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He paused, and took a deep breath, the words he wanted to say more than anything hovering on his tongue. It didn’t really feel like the right moment, but they were true, and he was afraid to wait until it was too late. "
> 
> Title from "4Ever," by the Veronicas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are these soundtracks actually helpful to anyone but me haha?
> 
> -"4Ever" by the Veronicas; John POV  
> *-"What Do You Want From Me" by Adam Lambert; Sherlock POV  
> -"Lullaby" by the Dixie Chicks; Sherlock POV  
> *-"All of Me" reprise [cover] by Darren Criss; John POV
> 
> Again, * is to indicate songs that aren't just well-suited for that scene or for the mood, but are also good insights into their thoughts and feelings. :)
> 
> Chapter Warnings: fairly graphic sex. Fingering, oral, and rimming. Some mild swearing. Age gap sex, which I assume you all knew to expect by now lol.

Neither John nor Sherlock felt any overwhelming desire to be back in the darkness of 221B quite yet, so when John suggested, “Angelo’s?” in a tired voice, they both turned that way readily. Dinner was quiet and subdued, nothing more to be said about Jennifer Wilson’s death, or about Sherlock’s potential work with Scotland Yard. Even Angelo seemed aware that something was off, giving them the space and privacy they needed as they ate.

Sherlock glanced at John over the flickering candle on the table, taking in the tension in his friend’s shoulders, and the deep lines that creased his forehead and eyes. It hurt him more than he could say to see John in distress.

He sucked in a small breath. “John, are you...are you sure that you’re alright?” He didn’t know what else he could say--that grief was natural, that perhaps talking to a counselor would help, or that he knew John was stronger than all of that. All of those statements were true.

The teenager glanced up at him, and offered a small, sad smile when he saw the compassion on his guardian’s face. Reaching across the table, he laid a hand over Sherlock’s, and the warmth of the touch radiated up through their arms. Sherlock caught his breath. Aside from the brief contact at the crime scene and while walking to dinner, it was the first comfortable physical interaction between them in months. For John’s sake, Sherlock schooled his body into stillness, wanting to conceal the longing that John’s gentle hold was reawakening in him.

John’s voice was soft and a little hoarse, and he struggled to sound unaffected as he carefully squeezed Sherlock’s hand, once, before releasing it. “I really am fine,” he replied, his smile softening into something more natural and genuine. “It just takes a toll--you know? I’ll be good tomorrow. Good that it’s break now, anyway.”

Sherlock had forgotten about that. Relief flooded him at the realization that John was out of school for the time being, and he nodded, able to relax a little and refocus on his food. He could pursue leads on Wilson’s death without fearing that there was a killer loose who would target teenagers--who might target John.

When they eventually returned home, the quiet emptiness of the flat seemed to stretch around them. Unfamiliar shadows flickered in the peripherals of John’s vision, leaving him feeling chilled, and a little disoriented. He sighed, shrugging off his jacket and putting his back to the wide room, smiling weakly as Sherlock flicked on the lights. “I’m going to shower,” he said, kicking off his shoes by the door.

For a moment, as John padded away down the hallway, Sherlock found himself standing in indecision, listening as the bathroom door creaked open and shut, and then as the water began to run. After a long moment, as the sound of the shower faded into white noise in the back of his head, he drifted to the sofa, then grabbed the remote and turned on the television.

The story of the murder was being replayed on the evening news. He listened as they recounted the limited information they had--everything he’d learned by being on the scene--and gradually, Sherlock’s focus slid away from the reporter herself.

In the background of the footage, a black car pulled up to the curb, just beyond the field where the students had sat waiting to be collected. As Sherlock watched, the door of the car opened, and a black-haired man in a suit emerged, looking rather out of place in the context of a crime scene at a secondary school; there was nothing parental, police, or even really civilian about him. Even as a small figure on a grainy television screen, his movements were commanding and intentional, those of a man used to getting his way.

Sherlock could not make out the man’s face at that distance, but he certainly recognized Seb Moran, crossing the grass from the opposite direction of the shed where Jennifer Wilson had been found. The teen was moving fast and purposefully, and when he reached the stranger, they stood outside of the car for several moments, facing one another. Sherlock leaned in, trying futilely to make anything out--but the footage cut away, changing to focus on D.I. Lestrade as he gave a hasty press release on-site.

Muttering irritably, Sherlock sat back, wondering if the man in the suit could possibly be Seb’s mystery guardian--or, more importantly, his sadistic lover. If it was his guardian, it would make sense that he had correctly recognized John’s similar predicament. Sherlock’s stomach turned unpleasantly at the idea of ever hurting John in such a terrible way.

As the news story continued, John meandered back into the living room, wearing only a tattered pair of jeans. It occurred to Sherlock then that John hadn’t taken a change of clothes to the bathroom, and of course he wouldn’t want to wear his uniform any longer. The jeans were an old around-the-house pair, hanging low and comfortably on his hips. As John raised his arms to towel his hair dry, the muscles of his abdomen stretched and flexed, making the jeans dip even deeper in the front. Sherlock swallowed, glancing hastily back at the screen as he hit the power button. He did not want to distress John any further with the events of the day.

John edged his way between Sherlock’s knees and the coffee table, sinking onto the sofa beside him, leaving scant inches between their shoulders. “It’s not so bad now that I’m home and safe,” he said softly, obviously noticing Sherlock’s protective instinct.

For his part, Sherlock found himself unintentionally tense, hyper-aware-- _of all the inappropriate thoughts to rise up now, under these circumstances_ \--that he had never seen John this bare before. Warm, tan skin stretched out beside him, and only with effort did he keep his eyes from continuing to skate right to take in John’s limp, lean frame. But he didn’t want John to think that he didn’t like having him there, so close to him, so he forcibly loosened his muscles, attempting to order his body to stop reacting so ridiculously.

The problem became exacerbated--or was it a drastic improvement?--when John tilted to the left, dropping his head lightly onto Sherlock’s shoulder. _Improvement_ , he decided finally, _definite improvement_ , and after a moment he shifted to swing his arm up and around John, cradling him in closer. The teen accepted the comfort eagerly, his face turning into the curve of Sherlock’s chest. The soft, hot puffs of his breath seared Sherlock’s skin through the thin silk of his shirt.

It might have been mere seconds, or several minutes, or even an hour that they sat there together. Eventually, Sherlock glanced down to see if John was still awake. The teen’s eyes were open, staring vaguely ahead, and it seemed that he was unaware of his left hand, which was tucked between their bodies and twisting very lightly in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. The faint tugging sensation was so innocent and needy, Sherlock felt as if his heart were being bruised by it.

As his gaze drifted back up, he suddenly noticed a large knot of scar tissue which marred John’s left shoulder, half-shadowed from being tucked against his own body. Unthinking, he raised his free hand, brushing his fingertips over the ridged flesh that had healed over an obviously messy wound.

John shivered, startling to attention, and his eyes dropped to Sherlock’s exploring hand before rising to meet his gaze. There was no consternation or annoyance on his face, just openness, and perhaps a touch of sadness.

“What’s it from?” Sherlock asked softly, barely above a whisper.

A terse half-smile crossed the teen’s face. His voice was just as low. “When I was fourteen....one day Harry got cornered behind our school by some homophobic jackasses in her year.” He licked his lips, watching as Sherlock continued to trace one finger over the scar. “I jumped in to defend her. One of them had a switchblade, but he was shit with it--he tried to stab me, and it skidded. Got me pretty deep where it made contact--” His breath hitched as Sherlock touched the spot in question, where the healing skin had formed a small twist of scar tissue. “--then tore back up and out.” John shrugged a little, looking at the scar as if he hadn’t seen it in a while. “Just wide and messy. It healed pretty quickly. But watching the skin recover was actually what first got me interested in medicine.” There was a flicker of unmistakable hope and pride in his tone as he said the words.

Staring at the scar, Sherlock felt inexorably moved by the sweetness and sincerity of John’s nature. His voice was scratchy when he spoke. “You’re...John, you’re a very brave man. I hope you know that.”

John did not reply, but Sherlock saw the tiny smile that curled up his mouth as he ducked his head. He was clearly pleased by the compliment--and by being referred to as a man, rather than a boy. Sherlock’s arm tightened slightly around John’s shoulders, wishing he had words for all of the feelings coursing through him at that moment.

Silence fell again, and in the stillness, Sherlock’s hand came to rest gently on John’s head, his fingers stroking absently through the short blonde hair. John gave a soft sigh, his head tipping back into the contact, and gradually the tension drained from his face. Sherlock smiled as he watched him, thinking that if humans could purr, John probably would be.

Then John turned his head, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. Their eyes held for a long moment, Sherlock’s fingers gradually going still in John’s hair. John cocked his head a little--not a demand, but an invitation, clear and hopeful.

Sherlock swallowed, at war with his own wanting. But he already knew that it was a lost battle. Desire won over logic. Leaning forward, he dipped his face, and pressed his mouth to John’s.

For the span of several seconds, it was purely sweet and tender--one gentle press of lips turning into two, small kisses that made heat blossom in the mouth and spread like liquid fire through their skin, simmering in their blood and exploding like butterflies in their stomachs.

Then light and curious turned into hungry and desperate. Sherlock raised his left hand to cup John’s face, his kiss becoming harder, more needful. When he let his tongue slip out, teasing at the seam of John’s lips, the younger man opened to him willingly, and Sherlock groaned as he tasted the soft heat, the faint trace of minty toothpaste, and above all the unmistakable essence of _John_ that filled and overwhelmed his senses.

Sherlock twisted toward him on the sofa, and John slumped sideways eagerly. The position was awkward, leaving him half on his side and half on his back, but he didn’t seem to notice, his hands clutching almost helplessly at Sherlock’s shoulders, scrabbling at his shirt. A needy noise escaped him when Sherlock started to shift back, and obligingly he returned, their mouths pressing back together as if it would be painful to separate.

Still kissing John as if his life depended on it, Sherlock managed to maneuver one hand between their bodies, trying not to be too rough as he pushed John’s raised knee to the side. Immediately his body weight dropped to rest between John’s thighs, but before he could even worry that he was going too far, John let out a truly pornographic whimper, his ankles lifting to hook around Sherlock’s calves. The hot pressure of his hands slid under Sherlock’s braced arms to grasp at his shoulder blades, clutching at the silk with blatant desperation.

And suddenly they were on fire everywhere, their thighs and groins grinding together, hot sweet friction setting off fireworks that made Sherlock’s vision go white for a heartbeat as he struggled to control the bucking of his own hips. He dragged his mouth away from John’s, laughing hoarsely as the teen moaned in protest, and began to press kisses along the edge of his jaw and down his throat, lapping hungrily at the droplets of sweat breaking out across John’s skin. The salty sweet tang of his skin was better than any drug Sherlock had ever experienced.

When he spoke, the words emerged brokenly between panted breaths, barely above a growl. “I...really...should...stop,” he ground out, biting down lightly on John’s collarbone, savoring the way his entire body twitched and jerked with the pleasure of it. “I should not...be doing this...to you.”

“Please, God, no, don’t you _dare_ stop,” John gasped out, his voice a high, breathless keen. The sound of it lit every drop of Sherlock’s blood on fire, and it blazed a trail down to his already aching erection, leaving him shaking from the force of his desire. “Please, just keep _touching me_ \--!”

Sherlock raised his gaze to John’s face, taking in his flushed skin and blown pupils, the way he clutched at the armrest of the sofa above his head, the hunger with which he watched Sherlock’s lips tease at the damp flesh of his chest. His eyes sank closed against the surge of lust the sight triggered. “You’re--it isn’t right,” he groaned, dropping his face to nose longingly at the quivering, tensed muscles of John’s abdomen. “You’re young. Too young.”

John laughed above him, and the vibrations of it rippled down through his chest and belly and against Sherlock’s cheek. Fingers carded through his dark curls, then tugged, dragging his head up to face John. “Legal age of consent is sixteen,” John reminded him dryly, laughter and lust brightening his beautiful grey eyes. “And I’m almost eighteen. So shut up, you tosser, and kiss me again.”

Any further protest died in Sherlock’s throat at the raw determination in the teenager’s face, and he surrendered with another helpless groan, surging up to kiss John roughly. Then he shifted back onto his knees to accommodate John’s hands, which were tugging impatiently at the buttons of his shirt.

The instant the garment was off he let his weight drop again, and John whimpered again-- _God, he could listen to that sound forever_ \--as their bare chests rubbed together. John’s hands slid back to his shoulders--then down, down, feeling every curve and line of Sherlock’s spine, not stopping until his fingers closed around Sherlock’s clothed hips, gripping the sharp bones bruisingly. The sensation of John’s hands on him, clutching at him so hungrily, overwhelmed Sherlock, and he couldn’t help himself from jerking forward. Through the fabric of their trousers, their erections ground together, and John flung his head back with a strangled cry.

“More,” he managed to choke out, his hips bucking wildly, and Sherlock could feel the hard line of his cock, rubbing helplessly against Sherlock’s own. More than that, he noticed with a moan, he could feel the faint dampness of pre-come beginning to stain through John’s jeans, and he wondered if John’s pants were soaked. The thought was so tantalizing, he found himself biting his lip to keep from losing it too soon. John’s voice dragged him back to the present. “God, Sherlock-- _more_ , please, just--more!”

It took all of his willpower, but Sherlock managed to drag his hips up and away. Before John could do more than grumble, he reached down, tugging the younger man’s jeans open--John ceased his protests immediately--and dragging the denim down his legs. Shimmying his hips to help, John raised his arms back over his head, hands closing over the armrest as if he needed to anchor himself.

Discarding the jeans, Sherlock stared at the delicious sight before him--the young, beautiful body stretched out for his pleasure, pants straining impressively over his hard prick, muscular upper body quivering as he fought to remain still, trembling under the scrutiny. Sherlock smiled, pure affection bleeding into the lust that stormed through him.

“You look...so gorgeous like this, John,” he murmured, pleased by the way the praise made John’s cheeks redden happily, his pupils dilating further. Sherlock trailed one hand down the length of his torso, feeling the muscles contract and flex beneath his fingertips, and he drew a deep breath before shifting back until he was level with John’s cock.

John’s eyes widened--and then a half-whimper, half-cry tore from him, as Sherlock tugged the waistband of his pants down, exposing his leaking prick. Without hesitation Sherlock dropped his head, swallowing John down as deeply as he could. He aimed for the perfect mix of teasing and fast, repeatedly bringing John as close to the edge as possible, without pushing him over.

Before too long, it was obviously overwhelming the teenager, and he began thrusting helplessly into Sherlock’s mouth. Words tumbled from his mouth, whining and pleas with no real coherent structure, and Sherlock absorbed them all, savoring every little gasp and sound he could drag from this beautiful boy.

Eventually John’s voice began to crack. “Sher--Sherlock-- _fuck_ , please, I don’t--I don’t think I can...take much...more--!” Sherlock raised his eyes, once more taking John as deeply as he could, and John made a sound that almost bordered on a sob as he stared down the length of his body, avidly watching Sherlock swallow around him. “ _Please_!” John whimpered, dropping his head back to the cushions. “Please, fuck, just let me come...!”

Pulling off of his cock with a slow, wet _pop_ , Sherlock grinned, dragging himself up John’s body to kiss him bruisingly. “What do you want, John?” he asked in a whisper.

John’s eyes were hooded, unfocused, and he stared at Sherlock like he’d never seen anything so mesmerizing. “I....I just want you,” he said breathlessly, and the raw emotion in his voice made something deep inside Sherlock fracture and break.

He chuckled, dipping down to drag his tongue along the taut lines of the teengager’s throat, up to his ear, and he whispered into the shell, letting his breath rush hotly against John’s skin. “Do you want to come in my hand....or in my mouth....” John shuddered beneath him, and Sherlock grinned, biting down gently on the lobe of his ear. “If you want, you could try topping...”

John’s entire body jerked at his words, and Sherlock felt another rush of pre-come splash between their bodies. When he drew back, John’s eyes were dark and glassy, staring at him with unmistakable hunger. Then John grinned, a spark of his usual cheek returning. “No,” he whispered. “When we get to that point, I want it to be you inside of me.”

The picture that John’s words painted filled Sherlock’s mind, and his eyes sank closed against the intense wave of _wantyesnow_ that roared through him. Leaning down, he kissed John again fiercely, whispering against his lips, “Yes, John...yes, I promise, I’ll do that--I’ll make it...so good for you, I swear.”

John groaned into his mouth, hips bucking needfully, smearing pre-come over Sherlock’s stomach. “Please,” he gasped again. “Please, Sherlock, can I come?”

“God, yes,” Sherlock whispered, ducking back down John’s body. “I want to taste you--come for me, John, let me get you off.” Sucking him back into his mouth, Sherlock gave himself over to his task. Eagerly he memorized every jolt and jerk of John’s hips, the sounds that tumbled brokenly from him, the way his whole body tightened like a stretched bowstring as he reached the edge--and at last, the way he arched off of the sofa, gasping Sherlock’s name, crying out with pleasure as he came, pulse after pulse of hot sweet fluid filling Sherlock’s mouth. He swallowed it all greedily, licking his lips with satisfaction as John slumped back on the sofa, panting heavily.

Sliding back up his body, Sherlock kissed him sweetly. “That was amazing,” he said hoarsely, smiling at John as he slowly opened his eyes again, his cheeks bright and flushed from his orgasm. “ _You_ were amazing--you were perfect, John. We don’t have to do anything else--”

John’s hand lashed out, moving between their bodies and wrapping around Sherlock’s erection through the fabric of his trousers, and his words cut off in a hiss of pleasure. The teen laughed softly as Sherlock spasmed under his touch, his fingers flexing around the hard curve of his arousal. “Shut up,” he said pleasantly, grinning as Sherlock managed to open his eyes, staring at him in awe.

Then he stunned his guardian by pushing him off of the couch onto his feet. Sherlock swayed unsteadily on his feet, letting out a groan as John rolled off of the sofa onto his knees. John worked quickly, effortlessly getting Sherlock’s trousers and pants open to free his cock. Without a word he wrapped his lips around him, and Sherlock sighed in bliss at the wet heat that closed over him. John was over-enthusiastic, his mouth slick and sloppy, but it was beyond perfect.

His hand found its way back into John’s hair, stroking aimlessly through the short blonde strands, unconsciously seeking stability. Humming his approval around the mouthful, John reached up, pressing Sherlock’s fingers down with his own in encouragement. The message was clear: _grip_. For a heartbeat Sherlock hesitated, not wanting to be too rough, but John growled around his prick, the vibrations rippling through him and making him hunch forward, thrusting hard into the tight warmth of John’s throat. His fingers clenched without a thought, and the answering moan of pleasure was all he needed to hear.

Sherlock slid both hands into John’s hair, holding him gently as he fucked into his mouth. He could feel John’s moans of affirmation, reverberating through his cock and going straight to his aching balls. John seemed to have complete control of his gag reflex, opening shockingly well to receive the face-fucking with obvious delight. Far sooner than he was ready, Sherlock found himself gasping at the bolts of pleasure racing down his spine, his impending orgasm rocketing through him like a guided missile.

Abruptly John pulled off, and Sherlock’s entire body shuddered from the change in pace. He stared down in shock at the teen's face, slack and grinning through swollen, beautifully abused lips. John’s eyes were glowing with excitement. “Sherlock, would you come on my face?”

For a moment Sherlock was speechless, struggling to process the request. John must have seen his disorientation, because he smiled, leaning in to nuzzle lightly--torturously--against Sherlock’s erection, lightly lapping at the droplets of pre-come beading at the head. “I want to feel marked,” John whispered, tilting his face to peer up at Sherlock through his lashes. His hand found Sherlock’s, moving it to circle his cock, and guiding him to start stroking himself. Sherlock followed the silent directive, watching in wonder as John’s lips parted, his tongue protruding to lap at Sherlock’s cock as it swayed before his face. Those stunning grey eyes flickered back to him, alight with love and desire. “Want to feel like I belong to you.”

His words slid through Sherlock’s chest like a knife, filling him with something dark and indescribable--and possessive. Sherlock’s whole body rippled with the force of the orgasm that swept through him, his hand moving faster over himself until he came with a low cry, watching with pleasure as John’s face was painted with streaks of white, his eyes fluttering closed as Sherlock’s come splashed across his cheeks and nose, some of it dripping down to gleam against his bare chest.

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him, reaching out to stroke his hand over John’s cheeks, a sigh slipping from him as John turned his face, sucking his fingertips into his mouth. Their eyes met, and John’s gaze was dark and intent on his guardian’s as they both came slowly back down from the high. Awareness was seeping back in, of their naked bodies, lips swollen from kisses and other things, and the sweet scent of sex permeating the air around them.

An hour or so later found them sprawled back on the sofa together, back in their pants and nothing else. Sherlock had fetched a cloth to wipe John off, and the teen had thanked him as he lay down, grabbing Sherlock’s hand before he could leave, and dragging him down beside him to nap.

Sherlock was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for his shirt, which was still lying rumpled on the coffee table. John seized his hand again, stopping Sherlock from getting to his feet. Perched on the edge of the cushion, feeling the heat of John’s bare thigh pressed against his back, Sherlock paused, looking back at the boy stretched out beside him.

John’s eyes were sleepy and afraid. “Are you...are you going to freak out about this?”

Hearing the worry in his voice, some of the tension drained from Sherlock. He hated to cause John any anxiety. Half-smiling, he sank back to lean his weight against John’s legs. One hand rose, reaching out to stroke gently along John’s jaw, and his chest ached at the way John tilted his face into the contact, his eyes blinking in drowsy pleasure.

Sherlock’s voice was self-deprecating. “I really should feel awful,” he said softly, his gut twisting at the ramifications of what had happened between them. “I should, but...I just can’t bring myself to.”

John sat up, both hands rising to clasp Sherlock’s face, his fingers warm and needy against his guardian’s slightly-stubbled jaw. “I wanted it just as badly as you did,” he said firmly, his eyes wide and beseeching. “Please, Sherlock, please don’t be angry about it.”

Sherlock sighed, raising a hand to press down on John’s. “I can’t be,” he murmured, his eyes lifting to hold John’s gaze. “Not when I feel this way.” He paused, and took a deep breath, the words he wanted to say more than anything hovering on his tongue. It didn’t really feel like the right moment, but they were true, and he was afraid to wait until it was too late. John stared into his eyes, and Sherlock knew that the teenager could see it there, see the truth plainly in his eyes.

John shook his head, very slightly, his eyes screaming his reciprocation. “Don’t...you shouldn’t say it. Not yet.”

They were both silent for a long moment, Sherlock searching John’s face closely. To his relief he could see that John really meant _not yet_ \--he didn’t mean _not ever_. It just wasn’t the right time. He nodded, turning his face to kiss John’s palm, smiling as the teen shivered slightly.

Then Sherlock smiled, standing up and offering his hand. “Come to bed with me.” To his joy, John grinned up at him, taking his hand readily. They fell asleep immediately, tangled together in Sherlock’s sheets.

* * *

Sherlock woke in an agonizing surge of arousal the next morning, and it took him a moment to realize--groaning and fisting his hands in the sheets at the sight--that John was lying between his legs, smirking up at him coyly as he sucked Sherlock to hardness as if he’d been doing this for years.

He was doomed. “I--not--going to--last--!” he managed to grunt, struggling to keep his hips flat on the mattress.

John flashed a devilish look up at him, then sucked harder, his tongue swirling far too perfectly around the head. Sherlock’s hand leapt to his head, clenching helplessly at his hair, and he surrendered to the urge to buck his hips, thrusting deeply into the welcoming heat of John’s mouth. Within a moment he was overwhelmed, and with a shout he came, staring in awe at the smug look on John’s face as he swallowed it all down.

Immediately Sherlock hooked his arms around John, hauling him up and rolling him onto his back. Their mouths slammed together, the kiss hard and demanding as Sherlock reached down to jerk John off, loving the way that John yelped into his mouth, fucking his hand eagerly. He kept his strokes fast and light, more of a tease than anything, and he grinned triumphantly as John caved within seconds. “Please!” he cried out, tearing his lips from Sherlock’s, his head flung back in rapture. “Please, Sherlock, I _need_...I need _more_!"

Sherlock smirked as he dragged kisses down John’s jaw, before drawing back to meet his gaze. “More?” he asked softly, still stroking John’s prick, the movement eased by the copious amount of pre-come leaking into his hand. “What do you want, John?” His voice lowered to a gravelly, sinful pitch. “Do you want a finger inside?”

John’s entire body jerked and writhed, his cock leaping as if offering its own approval of that suggestion. “Yes!” he groaned. “Yes, God, _please_!”

Sherlock lifted his free hand, sliding one finger between John’s parted lips. “Get it wet, John,” he instructed softly. He watched hungrily as his words sunk in, and as John focused on the digit invading his mouth, latching onto it and sucking desperately, his tongue circling the finger and getting it slick with saliva.

Then he pulled it free, reaching down between John’s obligingly spread thighs, moving until his fingertip found John’s entrance. He pressed in gently, as slowly and carefully as he could, and to his relief, John’s body opened to admit him fairly readily. Above him, John moaned in pleasure, twitching from the shock of the intrusion, whimpering in want as Sherlock breached him.

Sherlock watched John’s face, filled with awe at the pleasure the younger man obviously took from being penetrated. His other hand left John’s cock, coming to rest on his trembling belly, feeling the heaving of his breaths as he panted and moaned, hands grasping at the sheets.

Around Sherlock’s probing finger, the muscle was loosening rapidly, and Sherlock found himself grinning, loving the way that John received him so easily, seemingly unconcerned with any discomfort.

He leaned up on one elbow, still thrusting his finger gently in and out, spreading the tight ring of John’s arse. His lips grazed John’s collarbone, teeth biting down lightly to get the teen’s attention, and when hazy grey eyes landed on him, Sherlock smirked. “John, have you done this before? You're taking it so incredibly well.” As evidence, he thrust a little harder, a little deeper, loving the way John wriggled into the intrusion.

Soft, incoherent pleas were tumbling from John’s mouth, but under the heat of Sherlock’s gaze, he struggled to answer the question. His voice was high and breathless as he fucked himself down onto Sherlock’s finger. “I...once...yes...” he gasped out, surprising Sherlock. “Just...once,” he continued, groaning as Sherlock slowed his thrusts, waiting for him to keep speaking. “Uh....a classmate...from my old...school...my...my friend...Murray....we were just...experimenting--” and his voice broke off with a cry as Sherlock resumed thrusting more swiftly. He chuckled, leaning down to brush his lips over John’s erection as he spoke, letting the vibrations torment the teenager.

“Did it feel this good then?” he asked softly, kissing the leaking head of John’s prick lovingly. John bucked against his mouth, mewling helplessly.

“Nothing--nothing’s--ever--felt--this--amazing,” he gasped out, throwing his arms overhead to clutch at the headboard. Sherlock groaned at the raw honesty in his voice, and ducked down to suck him all the way into his throat. His finger slid free, but before John could protest, he pulled off to suck two fingers into his own mouth, getting them nice and soaked, before returning to the blowjob, and pushing both slick digits into John’s twitching hole.

John arched up off the bed, yelping his name, and Sherlock grinned around his cock. He pulled off again to growl, “Stroke yourself for me, John,” and practically purred in pleasure as John obediently dropped a hand to his own prick, stroking slow and hard. As a reward, Sherlock ducked down between John’s straining, sweat-dampened thighs, and thrust his tongue into John’s body, between his scissoring fingers.

An animalistic, primal sound escaped John, and he thrust his body down onto Sherlock’s tongue, his hand on his cock speeding up, the slick sound of it making Sherlock growl eagerly against his stretched hole.

He worked fast, licking and sucking at the muscle until it spread enough to admit three fingers. Twisting his wrist just right, satisfaction shot through him as he found his target, feeling John spasm off of the mattress, crying out his name as Sherlock struck his prostate.

A strangled scream tore out of John, and he fucked himself down onto Sherlock’s hand, riding his fingers harder and faster. Sherlock withdrew his tongue, leaning up to swallow John’s cock once more, and with a hoarse shout, John surrendered, bucking helplessly into the air as he came down Sherlock’s waiting throat.

* * *

Around noon they made it to the kitchen in their trousers, settling in for toast and tea. Sherlock smirked when he noticed John shifting in his seat, wincing slightly, but the teen merely stuck his tongue out at him, refusing to acknowledge his sensitive anatomy.

As they ate, John glanced at Sherlock across the table, and finally he took a small breath. “What’s going to happen now?” he asked.

Sherlock lowered his mug, sighing. He met John’s eyes steadily, wanting to be honest with his friend. _Lover_? No, that didn’t sound right. “I wish...” He paused, then steeled himself and pressed on. “I wish I could do the right thing by you, and say that this can’t happen again. But I’m really not that strong of a man.”

John frowned, then stood and crossed around the table to stand beside him. Leaning over, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a tight embrace. “I want you to be happy,” he said quietly, pressing his nose into the warm dip beneath Sherlock’s ear, inhaling the unique scent of the man who had come to mean home to him. “And if being with me will only upset you--”

Sherlock cut him off before he could finish that thought, twisting in John’s arms to kiss him fiercely. “I _am_ happy,” he said firmly, tilting John’s face to look him in the eyes, to make him see his sincerity. “I have never been happier than...than last night, sharing that with you.” They shared a small smile, blushes darkening their cheeks. “I just wish I had it in me to ensure that you live a normal life.”

John rolled his eyes. “Idiot. Falling in love is _supposed_ to be normal.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and potent, far too weighty after John had stopped Sherlock from saying it the night before.

At last Sherlock broke the tension, drawing back. “We should probably--get some air, or something,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Can’t spend your whole break cooped up inside.”

John smirked, grabbing his cup and draining the last of his tea. “I’d like to, myself--but you’re right. Yeah, let’s go to the park, like we used to.” They grinned at each other, warmed by the memory.

As John gathered up their dishes and took them to the sink, Sherlock paused, struck by another complication. He took a deep breath, turning so that he could see John’s face as he spoke. “John...what about Seb?”

He saw the tension that flooded through John’s shoulders, the rigidity in his arms that said clearly that he’d already been thinking about this. Sherlock swallowed, waiting tensely.

After a heartbeat, John relaxed, resuming his cleaning. A soft sigh left him. “I’ll think of something to tell him. I can’t really tell him...who I’m with, obviously, but I have to tell him that...that there’s someone.”

Unease trickled through Sherlock, and he thought back to his conversation with Seb the morning after the other boy had stayed with them. “He’ll probably know as soon as he sees you next,” he said quietly, not quite ready to disclose to John what he and Seb had spoken about.

John gave a small, sad half-laugh, then shrugged faintly, his back still to Sherlock. “Well...hopefully he’ll just be happy for me, and forgive me.”

His words made Sherlock freeze, turning to face John fully. He leaned against the table, waiting till John glanced back at him. “What is there for him to forgive?” Sherlock asked softly. “Have I...have I led you to betray a commitment to him?” It was one thing that he was letting himself go down this rabbit trail with John, despite all the dangers that a relationship of this nature posed for them; it was quite another thing to be the reason someone was cheated on. Sherlock had no desire to be such a man.

John turned fully around then, switching off the sink and facing Sherlock. He smiled at the fear in Sherlock’s eyes, shaking his head. “No,” he said firmly. “It was just...that we had this pain in common, the longing for someone you can’t have. It made us close from the start. And now I won’t share that with him, because...because I have you.” John smiled at that, feeling a little stunned by how rapidly everything had turned around.

Sherlock was still frowning, and John chuckled at his expression, crossing to stand before him. He leaned in, pressing his mouth hotly to Sherlock’s, relieved beyond words when his guardian responded, kissing back just as hungrily.

When he drew back, John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s face, feeling his lips pucker to lay a gentle kiss on the teenager’s skin. John smiled faintly. “I forbid you from second-guessing us anymore this soon in the relationship. You hear me?”

When he looked up again, Sherlock was smiling back at him, but there was something off about it, something tight and uneasy lingering around his eyes. Still, his voice was firm as he murmured his reply, pressing one more tender kiss to John’s lips. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. 0 to 60mph right? XD Hopefully that felt smooth enough. Also. For delectable good fun. If anyone wants a demonstration of some of the exact...choreography...that I was trying to describe as our boys got bizay, the YouTube link pasted below is a scene from the movie "Fish Tank," starring Michael Fassbender and Katie Jarvis as a girl who falls in lust with her mom's boyfriend. The particular scene is when the two have sex, and I will not deny its direct influence on this scene. XD
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OM3X4HF8BY
> 
> Hope you're all still with me! Please comment, it really means the world to me. I'm going to continue storyboarding the blackmail marriage story, now. Working title is Like Fractured Mirrors, what do y'all think?


	9. Make This Love Something Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s truly almost painful, how much I want you.”
> 
> Chapter title from "Addicted" by Saving Abel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -*"Everything" by Fefe Dobson [John's POV]  
> -"Have You Ever" by Brandy [Seb's POV]  
> -*"Addicted" by Saving Abel [Sherlock's POV]
> 
> This is all feeling very complicated and messy in my head right now.

Despite the explosive leap that their relationship had taken, John was surprised--and mildly bemused--to find that Sherlock was determined to proceed with caution. After that first spectacular night (and the amazing following morning), their intimacy was somehow much sweeter, more intentional, every bit of contact initiated with unspeakable tenderness.

Sherlock would pause over John as he sat in his armchair, leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth--and John could finally respond, utterly thrilled that he was now permitted to do this, by grasping the man’s shirt collar and pulling him in for a real kiss. Hands could roam, with less desperate urgency than the first time, across faces and down to caress gently through shirts.

They remained clothed, even at night; Sherlock allowed John to all but move into his bedroom, but he was adamant that pajama bottoms be worn, at the very least.

Surprisingly, John didn’t mind too terribly much. He could understand the dilemma his guardian was going through; every time they kissed, every time Sherlock caught his hand as it began wandering south, chuckling at the teen’s annoyed huffs and kissing his hands lovingly, John knew the older man must be trying to persuade himself that what he was feeling wasn’t wrong. John worked to convey through every touch, and kiss, and smile, just how right it really, absolutely was.

But even as he nudged lightly--leaving love bites on his lover’s throat and collarbones, pressing his weight into Sherlock when they kissed in the kitchen and letting him feel the hard line of John’s arousal against his thigh, or cuddling into the warm circle of his arms as they slept entangled together in Sherlock’s bed--John held his breath, keeping himself from pushing too hard, not wanting to seem too demanding.

Sherlock, of course, was in utter, delicious torment. The freedom to touch, at last, was intoxicating. Just glancing across the room at John could flood him with such heat that his breath would catch in his chest--and now he did not have to hide it. He could cross to the frumpy red chair, lean over the lazily sprawled boy, and kiss away the pleased surprise that flickered across John’s face as he looked up from his books. He could catch John’s sleeve as the teenager passed him working at the kitchen table, and John would happily crowd in and drop kisses down the side of his jaw and neck, leaving him aching with the desire to push the teenager down onto the table and--

Sherlock coughed slightly, shaking himself out of the daydream, and tried to banish the flush that was reddening his cheeks as John came in with groceries, grinning when he saw him.

“Thinking about me?” he teased, the laughter in his eyes indicating that Sherlock’s blush was quite apparent.

His guardian raised an eyebrow, giving up the pretense and letting the fantasy simmer back to the surface, knowing that the answering smirk on his face would easily get John’s blood heated up. Sure enough, John’s pupils dilated, his cheeks darkening slightly as he licked his lips.

“Always,” Sherlock replied, absolutely loving the way his voice affected John; the teen shivered, barely visibly, and drew a deep breath as if to collect himself. “Did you need help, putting those away?” he added, pointing one finger at the bags in John’s arms. As he’d hoped--God, how he enjoyed the flirting--John’s eyes landed on the extended finger, another tremor rippling through him as he no doubt remembered exactly what Sherlock’s hands had done to him already.

Then John noticed his smirk, and amused defiance lit his gaze, his shoulders straightening fractionally. “Oh, I’m good, thanks,” he said cheerfully, grinning at Sherlock before he turned and positively _sauntered_ into the kitchen, his hips swinging just a little, and damn it all, Sherlock needed to not think about that arse, or how it had felt trembling under his touch, or how John had _tasted--_

He growled, standing and striding into the kitchen. John had deposited the bags safely on the counter, and he swung around to face Sherlock readily. He opened his mouth, no doubt intending to offer something quite cheeky, but Sherlock was having none of it.

“Hush,” he murmured, caging John against the counter with his arms, and slanting his mouth over the teen’s. John’s moan at the contact was one of the most erotic things Sherlock had ever heard, and he immediately set to work trying to provoke another.

His arms wrapped around the teen’s waist, pulling him tightly against his own body. John whimpered as their hips pressed together, his fingers clutching needily at Sherlock’s arms. Between their bodies the friction built, trousers doing nothing to diminish the pleasure of their erections rubbing slowly, torturously, together.

It was simultaneously too much and not nearly enough, slow-burning pleasure that built itself into an inferno, and Sherlock thought he could die happily after experiencing the sensation of John’s hands clenched helplessly on his arms, clinging as though Sherlock was the only thing keeping him grounded. Even the sweatiness of it--something that had always thoroughly annoyed him about physical contact--was intoxicating, and Sherlock pressed his mouth to the side of John’s throat, feeling the teen’s whimper vibrate against his lips, tasting the salty sweet moisture of his skin.

John was moaning words, breathless little exclamations between panted breaths, and Sherlock realized vaguely that he was gasping out, “Please...”

Chuckling, the older man shifted his weight back--then let one knee slip between John’s legs, pressing forward until he could feel the hard heat of John’s erection against his thigh. A low, primal groan slipped from his ward, and a shudder rippled through him as his hips flexed forward. Sherlock watched in aroused awe as John was reduced to practically humping his leg, his face twisted with excitement and need.

Then John’s eyes opened, settling on Sherlock’s face with something visceral and hungry swirling in their blue depths. He tilted forward, pressing his face into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock slid his arms around the teenager, cradling him as he trembled. John’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m going to come...”

Sherlock smiled, slow and victoriously. Drawing back, he cupped John’s face, kissing his mouth with all the heat and love he could feel pumping through his very blood. “Go ahead.”

John’s hips moved faster, more purposefully, grinding against Sherlock’s leg even as he clutched as his shoulders, whining softly as the friction became uncoordinated and shaky--then he let out a small cry, his body wracked with pleasure as his orgasm hit. Sherlock kept his arms around the teen’s waist, supporting his weight when John slumped forward tiredly.

“Messy,” he heard John mutter, and he laughed softly as he felt John squirm against him, his pleasure no doubt dissipating under the sticky squelch of soiled pants.

The laugh caught in his throat when he felt John’s hands slide between them, starting to tug at his own belt. Catching his hands, Sherlock took a marginal step back, taking a deep breath to regain his equilibrium. “We don’t need to do more,” he murmured, hating himself for the frustration that flashed across John’s face.

The teen huffed at him, not pulling his hands out of Sherlock’s grip. “How long are you going to keep stopping me?”

Sherlock smiled faintly, raising John’s hands to kiss his fingers tenderly. His voice stayed soft. “I don’t want you to regret anything, John. Not about this.”

John frowned, and the lines that deepened across his forehead aged him, suiting the world-weary look in his smoky eyes. Irritation dripped through his words. “You need to let me decide that for myself. This is happening, isn’t it?” Something like worry flickered in his gaze, and he tensed slightly under Sherlock’s touch. “Are _you_ regretting it? Do you want to stop?”

Sherlock sighed, leaning in and kissing him. Despite his annoyance, John responded, his mouth opening willingly under Sherlock’s. When they broke apart, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. He looked down at their joined hands, his thumbs rubbing absent circles against the tan skin. “No, I don’t want to stop. It’s just hard to believe we’ve come to this. That you could want it just as much. Truthfully...it’s effortless to give you pleasure--to want to give you everything. But it’s very difficult to let myself accept reciprocation.” He lifted his face, meeting John’s gaze steadily. “We need to take it slow. Alright?”

John stared back at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath, and returned his smile. “Okay. I mean, as long as _we’re_ okay, then I am, too.”

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock leaned in for another kiss, smiling as John pressed into him hungrily. Then John snorted, pulling away with a grimace. “I need to change.”

Grinning, Sherlock released him.

* * *

This odd dance between them lasted for the duration of John's winter break. It was give and take--though most days John felt as if he were the one being given everything. But it was wonderful, all the same; companionable quiet broken by sweet kisses, occasional walks in the park filled with warm, knowing smiles and bodies “accidentally” brushing together, and nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the blankets on Sherlock’s bed.

And with satisfying frequency, John found himself writhing in pleasure under Sherlock’s hands, biting his tongue against the urge to say the words he could feel burning their way through his chest, clawing up his throat. But he knew it was too soon.

On the last day of the year, Mycroft sent Sherlock a text informing him that the chaos surrounding Jennifer Wilson’s murder was occupying his attention at the moment, so they would need to postpone their next check-in until after John returned to school in January. With a guilty stab, Sherlock found himself immensely relieved that he could postpone the inevitable; to his own annoyance, he knew he wouldn’t be able to really hide something this huge from his brother. When he told John, he could see the same flicker of uncomfortable relief mirrored in the teen’s face.

New Year’s eve was quiet, just the two of them sharing a bottle of champagne on the floor by the coffee table, with the telly playing softly in the background. It felt eerily like the end of the summer--but it was infinitely more pleasant, John thought drowsily, to trade champagne-flavored kisses in place of personal stories. John had phoned his parents earlier that evening, while his mother would still be awake, and had exchanged holiday greetings, trying not to hear how weak she sounded. Harry hadn’t answered when he’d tried her mobile.

Now he lay curled against Sherlock’s side, watching Big Ben tick toward midnight on their little screen, and smiling when Sherlock absently began stroking his fingers through John’s hair. It was a habit of his, as if he was reminding himself that he was now permitted to touch as much as he pleased. John loved it.

The champagne had the interesting dual effect of making everything feel slow and heavy, and yet intensely more sensual. The sensation of Sherlock’s fingers against his scalp set off fireworks in all of his nerves, and John heard himself make an odd half-sigh, half-moan sound, which had Sherlock pausing to glance down at him in concern.

He smiled sleepily, tipping his face up in invitation. Sherlock chuckled, leaning in to oblige him. Vaguely John heard Big Ben sound off, and the sound of cheering and singing, but he was captivated by the moist slide of lips, the teasing brush of tongue, and the unfurling tendrils of pleasure expanding in his belly. His eyes sank shut, and he surrendered to Sherlock’s lead as the older man kissed him with a painfully sweet tenderness, hands cradling John’s body as if he were fragile, as if he could break apart under Sherlock’s hands.

John snuggled closer, shifting to press his lips against the sensitive skin under the line of Sherlock’s jaw, and he smiled against the pale flesh as a tremor rippled through Sherlock. His fingers hooked into the front of Sherlock’s shirt, half-intending to work the buttons open, but everything felt so surreal, the muscle memory of the actions becoming difficult to recall.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured drowsily, and he thought he felt Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, his lips pressing against his hairline in a fond kiss.

“Happy New Year, John.”

He wanted to suggest they go to the bedroom; he was rather hoping that some of Sherlock’s stricture about their intimacy would fade for the occasion, but his mind wasn’t really sending instructions to his body anymore. The champagne felt warm and heavy in his blood, and he smiled faintly. “We should--bed?”

There was a soft chuckle above him, and then John gasped as his world dipped. Familiar arms wrapped around him, one at his back and one under his knees, and he might’ve giggled at being picked up bridal-style, but he was mostly just content, snuggling closer to the chest pressed against his face. They were moving, the air darkening around them as they left the illuminated living room, and then John felt the coolness of their sheets under his cheek.

He tried to get the words “good night” out, vaguely aware that Sherlock was gently sliding off his socks and shirt, and tugging his jeans away. Cool fingers brushed lightly across his face, and John turned his head, landing a small kiss on those beautiful hands, before sleep claimed him.

Sherlock watched John slip out of consciousness, his skin flushed from the champagne and from arousal, and his heart ached with love for the boy in front of him. His fingertip traced the outline of those sweet lips, a smile tugging at his mouth when John tried to kiss it in his sleep.

Voices outside their window were audible, singing _Auld Lang Syne_ into the night air, as Sherlock rounded to his side of the bed, climbing in fully-clothed and wrapping his arm around John’s waist.

In the dark, with the flash and glow of the London Eye fireworks splashing over their wall, and the sounds of laughter and cries of _Happy New Year_!, for just a moment, everything was perfect.

* * *

The day before school resumed, John had his first rugby practice of the year. When he arrived on the edge of the field, he stopped, taking a moment to compose himself. There was something unpleasantly jarring about being back on school grounds, a cold reminder of all the things that had kept him and Sherlock from examining their feelings for each other before. He was terrified, he hated to admit to himself, that he might come home from school one day, and Sherlock would have shut down, and would tell him that the fairytale was all over.

The thought made him shudder, and he shook it off impatiently. This was _why_ he played rugby; he needed the exertion and the competition to channel his worries and fears into, and to lose himself in the burn of muscle and the thrill of the sport. He knew--he _trusted_ that he and Sherlock would be fine.

He discarded his duffle and jogged to where the team was assembled, already in discussion. Vic was fully immersed in captain-mode, merely nodding at John as he continued to explain about their upcoming games. Henry and Anderson both spared him a smile, then returned their attention to Vic.\

John’s eyes sought out the only face he had any trepidation about seeing, and his stomach squirmed in fearful anticipation when he found Seb across the circle. His blonde hair had grown out a little, a few stray strands hanging over his forehead, and his eyes were icy blue as he glanced away from Vic, and his gaze met John’s.

There was a pause, as if Seb were studying him, and then John saw the distinct moment when he froze. His eyes widened, and John knew he must be flushing slightly, suddenly feeling as guilty as if his relationship with Sherlock _was_ somehow an act of infidelity. He held his breath, watching as surprise and something almost amused flash across Seb’s face, and then he flinched fractionally as Seb abruptly straightened up, breaking from the circle and darting around to his side.

Seb’s hand closed around his arm, and John found himself being pulled away from the team, vaguely hearing Seb call out to Vic that they would be right back. His co-captain gave a dismissive nod, not breaking pace as he spoke.

Several feet away from the group, Seb swung John around to face him, stepping in close so that he didn’t need to raise his voice to where the others could hear. “Did--has it happened? You won him over?”

John had no idea what to say. He stood with his mouth open slightly, stunned to realize there was a hint of a smile on his friend’s face, as if they were merely best mates, as if his successfully seducing Sherlock was something Seb would share his happiness over.

Seb made an impatient tsking sound, tugging him by the hand until they were off of the field, well away from their teammates. This time when he faced John again, there was a genuine smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment. “You look different,” he said, his eyes tracking over John’s face as if cataloguing the evidence of his recent evolution. “You look....satisfied.” His smile softened. “Are you? Are things good?”

Searching his friend’s face, John could find no deception, no indication that he felt anything short of joy for John’s situation. His head was reeling, all of the anxiety and remorse he’d built up over this moment spiraling into useless swirls of unused energy in his gut. He knew how Seb felt about him--maybe _love_ wasn’t the right word, but he made no secret of wanting John--yet he seemed truly excited that things with Sherlock might work out. Assuming he’d guessed who the object of John’s longing was, which he clearly had.

His voice was timid when he finally found it. “I...yeah. Yeah, it’s happened, and it’s...it’s brilliant, Seb, it really is. God, it’s amazing, but...I mean, aren’t you angry with me?” The question may have sounded a little plaintive, as he struggled to make sense of this conversation, but he couldn’t help it.

Something sad edged into Seb’s smile--not enough to ruin it, but certainly present. Stepping closer, he hugged John, arms encircling his shoulders in a warm embrace that made John’s stomach twist with the kindness and sincerity of the gesture. He could feel one of Seb’s hands at the back of his head, fingers stroking lightly through his hair, and the similarity to Sherlock made the butterflies flutter harder in his belly.

“More than anything, I just want you to be happy,” Seb murmured, his voice tickling John’s ear. “I am so glad that you’re happy.”

* * *

Practice was excellent, though John noticed with a twinge of grim humor that he was more than a little achey from the intensity of the orgasm Sherlock had dragged out of him that morning. But whenever he stumbled or slowed down, Seb was there, backing him and helping with the plays. It made no sense whatsoever to John, but Seb seemed genuinely pleased that he was getting some.

As he was closing his duffle bag after practice, John was startled to see Sherlock coming across the grass toward him. Leaving his bag, he went to meet him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, grinning as his guardian smiled back, reaching out to place a hand chastely on his shoulder in greeting.

“I thought I’d come meet you for the walk home,” Sherlock replied, withdrawing his hand and sliding it into his coat pocket. “I was already out--at Scotland Yard, so--”

John’s eyes widened, and he found himself spluttering a little from the immediate panic that blossomed. “What--but, we were fine, we’re-- _why_? Just because I’m going back to school doesn’t mean--”

Sherlock barked out a laugh, throwing his hand back up to steady John before he could get properly worked up. “John, no--I was consulting with Detective Inspector Lestrade about Jennifer Wilson’s murder. Not turning myself in.” His eyes softened as he smiled down at John, shaking his head affectionately. “Of course not.”

John’s adrenaline spike dissipated, his heartbeat decelerating, but just to be sure he jabbed a finger into Sherlock’s chest. “And you’d better not consider it,” he said, knowing he probably looked too relieved to be any degree of intimidating.

Sherlock just chuckled, then nodded back at the benches. “Shall I carry your bag?”

Shaking his head, John jumped back to the significance of Sherlock’s earlier statement. “So, what about the case? Did you find any leads?”

It was as if that switch was thrown again, Sherlock’s mind drifting away from the present and into some invisible place where he could analyze his data undisturbed. If it didn’t mean he felt unnaturally distant and unfamiliar, John would love seeing him like this, so focused and pensive. “I determined that the word on the floor _was_ a message from Jennifer--she was trying to write the name _Rachel_. We asked the parents; Rachel was her stillborn sister, when she was about twelve years old. Apparently she was quite devastated about losing her sibling. It was the password to her mobile--how her parents couldn’t have guessed that, I can’t imagine, simple, honestly--”

As he scowled, John snorted, nudging him, and Sherlock smirked before continuing. “Anyway, I was hopeful, thinking we could track it to the lover. But it was discarded in a dumpster. I suppose he took it from her body solely to erase evidence of himself from it, then disposed of it on the assumption it would tracked down. I was too slow.”

John shook his head in admiration, taking the risk of brushing his hand against Sherlock’s, the cool leather of his gloves feeling soft to the touch. “You still worked it all out, and in just one go. That’s amazing, Sherlock.”

His guardian smiled at him gratefully.

As John turned to grab his bag, Sherlock glanced past him, and stiffened when he spotted Seb standing near the road, watching them. The boy gave him a slight nod, his eyes leaping to John and then back to Sherlock. Still tense, Sherlock managed to nod back.

John rejoined him, and as they began to walk away, Sherlock couldn’t help himself; despite how petty it felt, he reached out and placed a possessive hand on John’s lower back, knowing that Seb was still watching them.

* * *

The final evening of winter break found them together in the kitchen, John laying out food for supper, while Sherlock sat at the kitchen table with tea and a book. As John set a pot of water to boil, his guardian glanced up at him, observing him for a moment before chuckling quietly.

John looked at him curiously, and Sherlock smiled at him. “It’s just funny--how domestic all of this is. You’re making dinner like a loving boyfriend.” John grinned at his word choice, and Sherlock knew he was probably blushing a little, but he pressed on. “Not that you haven’t always taken care of me, but now it feels different, somehow. More specific, more...I don’t know, intimate.”

John’s smile spread into a smirk, the smouldering look in his eyes spelling certain trouble for his lover. Turning off the stove, the teen crossed the kitchen slowly, reaching Sherlock’s chair and nudging him away from the table. After relocating his tea and book to the safety of the tabletop, John straddled his legs, edging up until they were pressed together from chest to groin.

Faces inches apart, John offered his most sensual smile, settling his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth as he leaned in. He stopped with barely a breath of air between them, watching the blend of anticipation and lust and interest that flickered across his guardian’s face. When he spoke, John’s breath brushed warmly against those cupid’s bow lips, enjoying the shiver that ran through the lanky body beneath him. “I _love_ taking care of you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly and clearly doing something quite spectacular to Sherlock, judging from the squirming going on between his thighs. “In every way possible...”

Sherlock groaned, and it was a tortured sound, as if the last of his control were snapping. His arms rose to wrap around John’s waist, and his mouth landed on the skin of John's throat, where he began dropping small, nipping kisses that made John wriggle against him, whimpering in delight. His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s truly almost painful, how much I want you.”

The words were like molten lava coursing through John’s veins, a wave of fire that made him feel suddenly invincible. Grinning lasciviously, he ducked his head down and began sucking  a bruise onto the side of Sherlock’s pale neck. “Why don’t you show me how much?”

Underneath him Sherlock froze, but it was not an alarming stillness; continuing to hold John tightly, he drew back a few inches, until he could meet the teen’s gaze. Verdigris eyes searched cloudy grey, seeking confirmation that he truly meant the words. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he reminded John softly, and the younger man smiled back at him, his face glowing with love and gratitude.

John nodded, but when he tried to speak his throat was dry. Coughing and swallowing to loosen his tongue, he tried again, squeezing his thighs around Sherlock’s legs just to see him jolt slightly, before he leaned in to press his forehead against his lover's, their noses brushing together. “I know,” he answered firmly, and he knew that Sherlock could see the need burning in his eyes.

Like the moment of their first kiss, Sherlock found himself at a crossroads, facing a choice; either way would turn out alright, but one was undeniably more appealing than the other. Looking into John’s wide, glassy gaze, and seeing the desire and hope and anticipation in their stormy depths, Sherlock once again felt like there was nothing he could refuse John.

Making his decision, he chose at last to trust John’s convictions, and his certainty that he would not regret them. His hold tightened around John’s body, bringing his body back flush against Sherlock’s. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he murmured, smirking at the way John’s pupils shrank visibly at the command.

John gasped, the sound taking a form close to “ _Sherlock_!” as the older man stood swiftly, easily supporting John’s lesser weight in his arms as he strode down the hall toward the bedroom. With every other breath they were kissing, as if a moment was wasted if it was not spent with some contact between their mouths, and John felt as if he were flying, hurtling toward some vast, unimaginable nirvana, one from which he would never want to return.

Entering the bedroom, Sherlock let himself tip forward, allowing John to tumble across the bed before immediately climbing over of him, capturing his lips in a desperate, searing kiss. For a moment, John indulged selfishly, tasting everything that Sherlock tried so hard to hide in the fire of the kiss.

Then he took over, grabbing Sherlock by his upper arms and rolling them both over, pinning his guardian to the bed. Dragging his mouth down Sherlock’s throat, his tongue tracing reverently over those stunning collarbones, John set to work unbuttoning his shirt, exposing more pale, quivering skin in order to continue his path down Sherlock’s body.

As he focused on sucking small hickeys onto Sherlock’s stomach, he glanced up at the older man’s face, which was thrown back against the mattress in a mask of pleasure. “I know you’re afraid you’re harming my innocence, or something like that,” John murmured, breathing the words against the jutting outline of Sherlock’s ribs, dropping kisses on the ridges of bone as he made his way downward. Sliding back up a little, his mouth latched onto one of Sherlock’s nipples and he sucked, grinning at the way Sherlock spasmed, and then blew gently on the puckered flesh. A soft laugh slipped from him as Sherlock shuddered blissfully beneath him. “I’m not a child, though, Sherlock...I haven’t been one for some time, now. And I am perfectly mature, and capable of deciding for myself that I want _this_.”

Staring back at John’s face for a long moment, Sherlock slowly nodded, indicating his acceptance of John’s free will.

Grinning cheekily, John sat up immediately, yanking Sherlock’s shirt open with minimal care for the remaining buttons. He waved his hand impatiently, which made the older man laugh as he arched up to shuffle out of the garment, before watching hungrily as John yanked off his own t-shirt.

Tossing both shirts aside, the teen tackled Sherlock’s belt, undoing his trousers and dragging them off, then tugging at his pants until they followed suit.

When Sherlock was stretched out naked before him, John paused, drinking in the view. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, preparing to make a snarky comment in order to diffuse any potential tension, then broke off with a sigh of pleasure as John trailed a hand from his throat, down the length of his body, slowing down just before he reached Sherlock’s now throbbing erection.

His hand paused there, then drifted off of Sherlock’s body. Sliding sideways, John eased himself off of the bed, straightening to remove his own jeans and pants. Then he grabbed the bottle of lube in Sherlock’s bedside drawer, climbing back up to straddle his lover’s hips.

Sitting up a little, propped on one elbow, Sherlock placed a hand over John’s, which appeared to be shaking slightly as he uncapped the tube. “You know that we don’t need to do this, right?” his voice was gentle, not refusing John, but rather offering him complete control over the situation.

John laughed softly, dropping his weight forward to push Sherlock back down, and placed his free hand lightly over his guardian’s mouth, quieting him. “Oh, I very much do need us to do this.” Moving his hand, he replaced it with his lips, nipping at Sherlock’s mouth until he surrendered with a groan, long pale hands sliding aimlessly over John’s bare hips, exploring and savoring the exposed skin.

Then John caught one of his hands, lifting it to drizzle some of the lube onto his fingers. Sherlock broke into a smirk, rubbing the gel slowly between two fingers to warm it a little. Grinning back at him, John leaned forward again, reaching his hand behind himself to find Sherlock’s cock, which he began stroking gently, nodding his encouragement. More than happy to oblige him, Sherlock sat back up a little, slipping his hand between John’s legs to prepare him, one finger at a time, stretching the muscle carefully.

Like the first time they’d done this, Sherlock was amazed at how willingly John’s body submitted to him, and he was equally awed by the obvious pleasure the teen took from his touch. John’s hand was still on his prick, but the movement was uncoordinated and shaky now, his whole body shivering with delight and need as he struggled to remain still, allowing Sherlock to work him open. Soft moans and whispers of “ _Sh_ \-- _Sherlock_ , oh God, yes...” tumbled from him like prayers, soothing away the ache that Sherlock had become accustomed to carrying in his heart. _They were both here, now, sharing in this together._

After several minutes, when Sherlock had three fingers easily gliding in and out of John’s body, the teen sighed softly in relief, reaching down to nudge his hand until he removed it. Grasping his prick securely, John found himself a more stable position, then eased himself down onto Sherlock’s cock.

The air seemed to punch its way out of Sherlock’s lungs, and for a moment he went perfectly still, eyes drifting shut against the overwhelming sensation of John’s body-- _so tight, so hot, so fucking perfect_ \--wrapped around his like this, so unbearably intimately.

When he opened his eyes again, he realized John was hunched forward slightly, curling into him instinctively. For a moment both were silent, feeling the connection between them like tangible thing, as if there was a golden thread in the space between them, wrapping around them and binding them together.

Then Sherlock took a small breath, and John gasped at the movement, his hips squirming against his lover’s. Immediately Sherlock tensed. “Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely, raising a trembling hand to stroke John’s flushed cheek.

John’s eyes settled on his, wide and full of awe. “It’s just...it’s just _so much more_ than I ever imagined,” he whispered, his voice sounded vibrant and far-away. Then he leaned forward, clasping Sherlock’s face with one hand and kissing him, pouring all the love and emotion he could into the gesture. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed against Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock smiled tenderly into the kiss, wrapping his arms around John’s waist as he returned it fervently. As gently as he could, he rolled them both over, moving with as much care as he could as he began to thrust, slowly, mentally collecting every sigh and moan and whimpered “ _Yes_ , please, more...” and saving them forever, so that he would never forget a single detail of this moment, of making love to John for the first time.

Then John’s mouth was beside his ear, hot panting breath gusting against the shell and making him shudder even before he registered John’s whispered words. “Harder, Sherlock...faster. Please, please just fuck me harder.”

Groaning in ecstasy, Sherlock sat up on his knees, hooking his arms under John’s thighs for better leverage as he began to move faster. John’s head flung back against the pillow, an elated cry of “ _Sherlock_!” tearing from him. His fingers clenched in the sheets, more wordless cries of pleasure tumbling free as Sherlock fucked into him.

When he tried to speak, Sherlock found himself stuttering slightly, breathless from the overwhelming pleasure. “I’m--I’m close,” he got out, and John’s eyes opened to stare back up at him with raw bliss. A shudder ran through Sherlock as he took in John’s flushed face, his rumpled hair, the sweat glistening on his forehead and chest. “Co--come with me?” he panted out, and John grinned dazedly, snaking one hand between their smooth-sliding bodies to wrap around himself, managing a nod as Sherlock pressed into him more deeply.

“Go ahead,” John whispered, and there was so much love, so much reverence in his voice, it shattered something inside of Sherlock. His hips snapped forward, thrusting faster and deeper as he watched John fist himself, sweat and lube giving him the perfect friction, and as he watched Sherlock fall to pieces above him, it pushed John over the edge as well.

He came first, crying out Sherlock name as his release streaked across his stomach and was instantly smeared between them, and Sherlock followed a moment later, slumping down over John as if his orgasm had drained every ounce of strength he possessed. Their arms slid around one another, ignoring the mess as they held on, their breath mingling hot and humid in the close space between them.

At some point, Sherlock felt John wiggle into a more comfortable position, effectively making his spent cock slip free as the teen shifted to lie more beside him than underneath. The dampness suddenly felt much stickier, and Sherlock huffed faintly against John’s neck. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and John cracked an eye to peer curiously at him. “Sorry, forgot--no condom,” he tried to explain, his voice slurred with pleasure, and sleepy contentment.

John snorted, raising a hand to stroke his fingers through the sweaty curls clinging to Sherlock’s forehead. “Yeah, cause there’s such a high chance we’re cheating on each other,” he joked back, nuzzling his face into the damp black hair brushing his cheek.

Sherlock could only laugh breathlessly against his skin.

* * *

Sherlock was already in the kitchen when John emerged the next morning, dressed for school and smiling rather goofily. His guardian returned his grin, lowering his tea to accept a kiss as John passed him en route to the toaster, which Sherlock had already set for him.

“We have another check-in with Mycroft due,” Sherlock commented, and John shot him a nervous glance over his shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” Sherlock hastened to assure him, reaching out to touch his face gently, and smiling softly as John tilted into the touch. “I’ll phone him when you leave and let him know we’re fine--he’ll probably appreciate not having to drop his work to come over for a full visit.” He paused, watching John spread butter and jam on his toast, and waited until the teenager glanced back up.

“He’ll most likely know something has changed,” he said, keeping his tone light to avoid causing John undue stress. “But I know he won’t ask about it over the phone, and I imagine he’ll assume I’d come to him if we needed his help.” Sherlock paused, wondering if he should feel guilty for using his brother’s trust as a means of delaying the inevitable. But then John’s hand slid into his, and the concern faded away.

John had worry lines creasing the corners of his wide grey eyes. “Are you--are we still okay?”

Bringing his smile back, Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “We are brilliant.”

In response, John wrapped his own arms snugly around Sherlock’s waist, clinging to him as if affection alone could erase all of the issues they faced.

Once John had left for school, Sherlock hit his brother’s speed-dial. “All’s well, then?” Mycroft asked distractedly, sounding as relieved as Sherlock had expected he would to handle this check-in swiftly, without having to leave his work on the Wilson case.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, sinking down in front of his laptop and looking irritably at the toast that John had prepared and left for him. He’s been eating far more than usual lately, at his lover’s insistence. He half-smiled. “John’s well, getting good marks and enjoying rugby--”

Unbidden, his mind leapt to Seb, and he wondered how the other teenager was handling John’s choice of partners. He swallowed hard, then caught himself before Mycroft could ask what was wrong. “Ah, and he’s eating and sleeping well. As am I, actually--which is his fault, frankly.”

Mycroft chuckled, and there was the sound of a pen scratching on paper as he made notes to email to Mike Stamford. “Excellent,” he said, and that concluded the formal interview. There was a pause, and then it was Sherlock’s big brother, rather than a substitute social worker, who asked, “Is there anything else?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then let it out silently, closing the door on emotions so that his voice was perfectly steady. “Nothing else. Thank you for managing these check-ins, Mycroft.”

There was a beat of silence, and it occurred to him that he really never voiced gratitude to his sibling--he was too often annoyed by Mycroft’s interference to appreciate the amount of help it provided. Mycroft sounded surprised and a little pleased. “Of course,” he replied, and the line clicked as they both hung up.

When John arrived home that afternoon, there was a hint of tension in his shoulders that had Sherlock eyeing him with worry as the teen came in, dropping his bag on the floor by the table, and sinking into his armchair across from the older man.

John picked up the tea Sherlock had neglected on the end table, draining the last of it before meeting his guardian’s gaze. “I’d like to invite Seb over again,” he began without preamble. “He knows about us, so it isn’t a risk, and there’s something very wrong with his home life--and I’d like to spare him from that, as much as I can.”

Unease flickered through Sherlock, unsure how he would behave around Seb, considering their last conversation, and the subsequent changes in both of their dynamics with John.

He repressed his worry, however, offering John a sincere smile. “If it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, then I’m fine with that.”

John smiled, his shoulders relaxing marginally, and leaned across the gap between their chairs to press a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “There’s nothing to be uncomfortable about. Seb knew when we met that I loved someone else, and he’s been wonderful about being my friend.”

Though John didn’t seem to realize he’d said it again, Sherlock once more felt warmed and stabilized by the teen’s use of the word _love_. “Alright, then,” he agreed, then laughingly discarded his book to accommodate John’s decision to hop up and drop across his lap, taking his guardian’s face between his palms and kissing him soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been deeply upset for the last 24 hours, because I refused to let another month pass without an update. I've barely succeeded, but hey...progress. It won't happen again, I promise!


	10. Love the Way You Hurt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But of course it was too good to be true."
> 
> Chapter title from "Irresistible" by Fall Out Boy, which is a truly amazing song.
> 
> Warning for a scene of dubiously consensual violence involving a teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Irresistible" by Fall Out Boy; Seb POV  
> -"War of Change" by Thousand Foot Krutch; John & Seb POVs  
> -"Goodbye" by Secondhand Serenade; Sherlock POV
> 
> This was edited swiftly, and shortly after it was written, so if you see glaring errors, comment! And comment anyway, because I get ridiculously happy when I see Inbox (1+). I'm pathetic. XD
> 
> I had two completely different songs for this chapter, and then I heard "Irresistible" and "War of Change" on Pandora, and just had this double moment of...."Oh, Seb."

Seb was more than happy to come over for supper the next evening. The three of them gathered around the kitchen table, all seated on different sides--though John noticed with amusement that Sherlock managed to shift their chairs toward the corner between them, keeping John close.

As they ate, his guardian was unusually quiet while the two teens chatted about school and rugby, until John began to feel he was being rude. Under the table he nudged Sherlock’s leg with his foot, still giving his attention to Seb and maintaining his smile.

Sherlock looked up then, and both boys paused in surprise as he set down his fork and folded his hands under his chin, gazing at Seb steadily. “I know that I may come across as antisocial or unwelcoming,” he said gravely, and John found himself holding his breath. Sherlock’s eyes were hard as steel. “But I want you to know that you are always welcome here, in our home, whenever you want or need.”

Looking slightly bemused, Seb nodded, smiling his gratitude. “I appreciate that, Mr. Holmes." His eyes dropped to his plate. “Things have gotten better at home. But it’s nice to have a place to go.”

His words made John frown, and he opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock’s hand landed on his knee, squeezing lightly in warning. Seb was still looking down, so John shot his lover a questioning look, but Sherlock merely shook his head very slightly, urging him not to pressure the other boy. Deflating, John sat back, then gathered his wits and had a smile pasted on when Seb raised his eyes again. “So, what should we watch tonight?”

When dinner had been eaten and the dishes cleared, John excused himself to the bathroom. Sherlock watched as Seb hesitated, then drifted over to the sink and began washing the plates. Smiling drily, he joined him, reaching out a gentle hand to stop him. “Truly, Seb--how are you?”

Surprise and mild uncertainty flashed in Seb’s eyes, and his lips thinned as he stared back at the older man. “When...when I realized that John was with you, my attitude at home started improving,” he said slowly, breaking eye contact to stare down at the soapy water on his hands. “Things aren’t as bad now.”

Sherlock frowned at the repeated evasion. He knew Seb was more willing to tell him than John, but this was clearly not a subject he felt safe opening up about to anyone. “Who do you live with?” he tried.

Seb shot him a sardonic smile, an edge of bitterness lining his voice. “Please don’t do this. I know you care for his sake, but I won’t give anything away.” He swallowed, absently rinsing and drying his hands, and Sherlock noticed that his fingers were trembling. “Please,” Seb continued softly. “You have your happiness--one that you know I envy. Just...let me live my life for myself.”

Sherlock drew a breath, wanting to argue, then bit down on the words as John rejoined them, his voice animated. “So! Doctor Who?”

There was a genuine grin on Seb’s face as he turned to follow John, but as the boys left the kitchen, he glanced back over his shoulder just once, his gaze meeting Sherlock’s with clear finality. _Don’t_.

Sitting on the sofa together, a bowl of popcorn between them and the television playing softly, John slanted one more worried look at his friend. “You...do seem better than you have been in past weeks,” he ventured tentatively.

Seb chuckled, and one hand crossed the other to trace a fingertip over the now-faded red scars of old cigarette burns. “I’m making peace with things.”

Hesitantly John reached out, laying a hand on the taller boy’s arm. “Look, Seb, it means everything to me that you haven’t walked out on our friendship because of Sherlock, but...but I hate to see you suffer so much. If you’re being abused, we can--”

Seb cut him off, clasping the hand on his arm and smiling sincerely at John. “That’s not it,” he assured him quietly. “It’s...complicated, and it wouldn’t make sense to someone as good and kind as you, but my life is exactly what I want it to be.” He paused, biting his lip, and with a guilty twist in his gut John thought that Seb must be lying outright to him, because he had to know he’d have been happier if John had been able to choose him.

Seb’s voice was a little rougher now. “You really should just enjoy the great thing you have--” His gaze cut toward the kitchen, where Sherlock was out of sight, working. “--and not worry about trying to ‘save’ me.”

Frustration bubbled up, and John wanted to shake him, to break something, to fight back, but he did not have the heart to keep hurting his friend. Still holding tight to his hand, he nodded, watching sadly as Seb smiled faintly in relief and turned his attention back to the telly.

* * *

Seb Moran never knew his father. He’d been raised by his single mother, secretly grateful he was her only child, as he found himself taking care of her far more than the other way around. He had believed that the relationship they had was normal enough. He’d supposed that every mother was distracted, and easily angered, and occasionally asked their sons to carry packages to strange addresses before school, and to bring her back the money afterwards.

He was fourteen when social services came with the police, and his mother was arrested in front of him for possession, intoxication, and distribution of cocaine and heroin. Seb still vividly remembered the officer forcing her to the floor, cuffing her wrists behind her back and reading her her rights as she swore and screamed, and he could recall pressing himself against the hard wall, staring wide-eyed as she’d finally noticed him and changed tactics, crying out his name and pleading for his help, begging the officer not to take her away from her little boy.

The social worker had strode in, ordering her to be silent, and had held up a box--one that Seb had delivered that morning. He had asked if Seb recognized it, if he had carried it for his mother. When he had nodded wordlessly, she had begun screaming again, calling Seb names and telling him that he was worthless, utterly useless, that she had never loved him, that she wished he had never been born.

With time he had let himself forget her harsh final words to him. His memories twisted, and became a muddled mess of the rare hugs and kisses, of bedtime stories while he was still small, and of nights when she would sink down on the couch and stroke his hair, talk to him, and even--perhaps he was only imagining this memory--tell him that she loved him. His mother had been his everything, and being taken away from her was the most horrible experience he could remember.

Which was saying something, he supposed, considering where he ended up.

The lottery had taken him immediately, and placed him just as rapidly. The assignment paper merely said J.M. Seb had been taken to a small, sunny flat where a man in his early 20’s had greeted him kindly, welcoming him into his life with a warm indifference that made Seb feel safe, and rescued, but not burdensome.

He had come quickly to love life with Jim in their quiet, comfortable little home, knowing he was safe from his mother’s control and manipulation. His new guardian was kind and encouraging, treating him like he was valuable, like he mattered. All too soon, he would recognize later, Seb was addicted to his guardian’s praise.

Affirmation from Jim was like oxygen, giving him strength, and life, and purpose. When Jim smiled at him, or touched him, the pleasure it produced was like a drug--not the destructive poisons that had stolen his mother from him, but liberating, blissful, exhilerating.

And Jim clearly found his adoration delightful; while Seb remained oblivious to the rising danger, his guardian cultivated his behavior into almost worshipful obedience, training Seb to follow his orders with absolutely devotion, never questioning his instructions--be it mundane housework, or making deliveries. He was never given money by the recipients, and Seb found himself too besotted with Jim to want to know what the envelopes contained. If Jim was anything like his mother, surely social services would have known, would never have sent him here.

When Seb had been in Jim’s care for two years, his feelings toward his guardian had begun to shift directions. He had never really thought about sex, had certainly never imagined falling in love, and what understanding he had of biology came from the internet, and the limited resources of school textbooks. He knew that he needed Jim; that he loved him with something like reverence; but it wasn’t until the dreams began that he wondered how exactly that need might evolve.

In his dreams Jim was everywhere, every night, consuming his mind and body in a way that was far more visceral and vibrant than their real interactions ever were. Jim’s voice and hands would caress and command and possess Seb, and he woke every time with sweat and tears and other things soaking his sheets, his addiction to Jim’s affection increasing after every orgasm he experienced, imagining his guardian being the one delivering it. If Jim knew the effect he was having on his ward, he only seemed to be more pleased by it, feeding Seb kindness and control in equal measures, taking ownership of him in every way.

Seb remembered their first time all too well. As always he came when Jim called him, and as he listened to Jim’s instructions for delivering a letter, he realized abruptly that Jim was hard in his trousers. Unable to help his instinctive response to his guardian, he found himself getting aroused, imagining being permitted to touch, allowed to sink to his knees and show Jim how much he craved his approval.

Jim had stopped speaking, and too late Seb realized his guardian could see his reaction. Jim’s voice had been pure sin, liquid lust, twisting and winding around Seb’s heart like a serpent. “Do you need a hand with that, Sebastian?”

His full name, as if he were an adult, as if this moment was normal. Seb’s breath had escaped him in a rush of embarrassment, and he’d turned away, thinking that fleeing was his only option.

Instantly Jim had been on him, trapping him against the office wall, pinning his body between white paint and the blazing black eyes that had haunted all of his wet dreams for so many weeks. Jim’s mouth had crashed onto his, the kiss hard and punishing, taking his pleasure rather than sharing it, and Seb surrendered willingly, as he always would to Jim.

His yelp was lost in Jim’s mouth when the older man slipped a hand into his jeans, fist closing around his throbbing prick and stroking him rough and fast, letting go only when Seb got close. Over and over he repeated the torment, laughing softly when Seb whined inarticulately in pleading every time. Eventually he did let him come, whimpering Jim’s name helplessly.

Jim owned him. He commanded Seb’s pleasure, and he owned his pain. Every day since that first, whatever he chose to give or take, Seb allowed him.

Even when he began to push Seb’s boundaries, the teen embraced it needfully, wanting to give Jim everything he demanded. When Jim’s grip began to tighten around his throat, or his wrists, or his cock...when his touches became damaging rather than tender, leaving dark bruises that sometimes took days to heal...still Seb never protested.

If anything, he became hungrier for Jim’s control. He learned to find no pleasure unless it was accompanied by the pain--bruises, cuts, and burns; rope marks and handcuff rashes; the sting of cigarettes on his hands; all of it reassuring him that he had Jim’s complete focus, and that his master wanted him. Jim’s authority over his every thought, every breath, every flicker of pleasure and pain, was more precious to Seb than air.

And then he met John Watson.

Perhaps if he was honest, he’d admit to himself that he knew what Jim did to him, for him, was wrong. That love should not be so one-sided, or that intimacy shouldn’t only be violence and survival. Love should not look the way it always had, for him.

And yet, it was all he had ever known, and he was always left begging for more. Seb could acknowledge that his mother had been cruel and manipulative, but he could not make himself hate her. He knew that Jim abused him, that Jim did not love him as he loved his guardian, but still he craved him. He did not know how to _want_ to walk away.

But the way that John looked at him...that was completely new, and totally disorienting. The warmth in his eyes, the way he would smile at Seb, the tenderness of his hands if he touched him. In the early months of their friendship, it had nagged at Seb like a bite on his skin, an itch that distracted and frustrated him, but would not seem to disappear.

John Watson, with his constant affection and concern, his wide blue eyes promising security and equality and reciprocation. To Seb’s shock, John had begun to infiltrate his most intimate thoughts, the places in his mind that only Jim had ever possessed. John had appeared in his dreams, had drifted through his mind as he sat with Jim at home, his soft voice and gentle touch flickering to the surface at the most vulnerable times.

More than once, Seb had barely caught himself in time to bite back John’s name in the throes of passion, when it was Jim’s hands on his body, restraining and hurting and pleasuring him. Seb could only imagine the trouble he would bring on himself--and John--if he were to ever slip.

It was this new, bizarre, secondary obsession that had driven him to admit to having feelings to John. It had been easy enough to recognize the same symptoms of unrequited love he himself lived with, and he’d been half-afraid John might be being abused as well--but of course not, John had a good and decent guardian.

And then something had begun to blossom between them, something warm and sheltering and sweet, and he’d wondered if he would have the strength...the _nerve_...to do this, to have John for himself, and to hide it from Jim. Somehow. Unlikely.

But of course it was too good to be true. Sherlock Holmes loved John back.

Seb had been terrified of that reality, when they had parted for winter break and he’d lied and told John he wouldn’t be free to see him during the holiday. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t done it; that he’d asked to come over, hell, that he’d just asked John on a date--but he couldn’t be so reckless, he could never do something so ordinary and common as date, Jim would know, and Jim would _punish_. So he had backed away from John, had kept his distance and spent two long weeks wondering if things would be the same when they reunited.

And then he had seen it when John returned to rugby, the glow of a man who loved and was loved, and who had his desires met and his needs provided for. He had seen it when he watched them together, the utter tenderness that flickered through Mr. Holmes’ otherwise ice-cold gaze when he looked at his ward, and the utter devotion in John’s face--a look he himself had worn often enough.

They were in love. And it was real, passionate and mutual and serious--not violent or cruel, as he had been trained to believe love was. His mother had taught him that love meant forgiving someone their deceit and abuse if it meant they would protect you, and Jim had reinforced that belief.

He did not know what to do about the frail, newborn conviction blooming in his chest that he might deserve something better.

Returning home from dinner with John and Sherlock--it felt as if his skin was still tingling pleasantly where John had gripped his hand, so reassuring and stabilizing, ever his loyal friend--Seb found Jim seated at the kitchen table, placing papers into a small envelope. As was often the case, his guardian did not acknowledge him; he would greet Seb when he wanted him. Suppressing a sigh, Seb crossed behind him wordlessly, entering the kitchen and heading for the fridge. He wasn’t hungry, but he could hardly say that he’d already eaten.

With his back turned, he didn’t see Jim frown, turning to watch the teen as he set aside his pen and papers. He stood, following after Seb.

Seb had just opened the refrigerator door when Jim’s arm appeared under his own, one slender white hand pressing the door closed again. Pressing in against Seb’s back, Jim dropped his face into the curve of Seb’s neck, nuzzling with deceptive tenderness at the sensitive skin there. “How was your day?”

The silky purr made Seb shiver slightly, and too late he realized that his distraction had been disrespectful; Jim preferred the teen’s attention to be solely on him unless he had been dismissed. He knew his voice sounded strained, but if he was lucky--if Jim was in a good mood--he would interpret it as arousal from his proximity, rather than anxiety. “It was--fine,” he got out, almost a whisper. “I got a good mark on a quiz.”

“Mm.” Jim never really cared about his schooling. If it were not a legal requirement, Seb couldn’t help thinking his guardian would probably keep him chained to the bed, always waiting for him, always available to him. “Did you have practice?”

Seb knew that tone. Jim always knew if he lied. “I--no. I was just...hanging out with friends.” _Frail, frail, frail_. Jim knew better, he knew when Seb was hiding something from him. He’d given up trying years ago, and for good reason.

Jim’s lips brushed against his neck, the barest hint of teeth as he kissed Seb, leaving goosebumps and red marks on the flesh. “I have an errand for you to run.” The hand on the fridge door moved to Seb’s chest, those long talented fingers teasing with maddening delicacy across his chest. Cool lips grazed his ear. “I’ll pay you back, as usual,” Jim murmured, biting lightly down on the lobe.

Seb sucked in a deep breath, wondering where on earth he was finding the strength to say the next word. It emerged strangled, and even he knew could hear that it was clearly fear, not arousal. “No, Jim.”

His guardian froze at his back, and the hand still toying with his nipple tightened fractionally, producing a tiny pained gasp from the teen. Swallowing hard, Seb pressed on with his suicide endeavor, choking out, “I just--I have a lot of maths homework I need to finish, and an English test I haven’t studied for at all. I need--” He bit his lip as the torture continued, joined by a small, hard bite on the meat of his shoulder. His voice was breathless. “I need to--to focus on school a little more, I’m sorry?” It sounded too much like a question, too much like a plea. “Please, Jim.”

Abruptly the hot contact of Jim’s lips left his neck, and his hands slid off Seb’s chest. The heat of his lean body shifted away from behind him. Seb sucked in more air, and was just starting to turn toward his room--to escape--when Jim spoke again, sounding perfectly pleasant. “How is your friend, by the way? The little blonde lotto boy--John, wasn’t it?”

Seb’s entire body stiffened, and he felt numbness spread from his heart to his fingertips. Jim laughed, stepping closer, grinning in approval when Seb locked his knees and kept from stumbling away from him. “No need to look like a deer in the headlights, pet, I’m merely...wondering.”

Seb knew his eyes were as wide as saucers as he raised them to Jim’s face, unable to utter a word. Jim’s hand closed around his chin, clasping too tightly, his nails digging in, and he yanked him closer, pressing his mouth to Seb’s in a deceptively playful kiss. His breath was hot against Seb’s lips as he drew back a few centimeters. “I’ll fetch that letter I need delivered.”

As he stared into the bottomless eyes, Seb could only blink hazily, bewildered as always by the clash between cruel touch, and sweet kiss. Jim pressed one more gently against his lips, smiling, then stepped away.

“I--I can’t,” Seb heard himself say as if from far away, his voice weak as Jim paused, half turned away from him by now. “I really--can’t, I’m sorry, Jim. I need to study, badly. If...if I fail a course, I can’t play rugby.”

Jim turned back toward him, and the tiny spark of affection had left his eyes. He looked dark and angry, vengeful, and Seb knew that nothing else he said would matter, or save him now. The line had been crossed, and his defiance would be handled as thoroughly as any punishment ever was. There was no turning back.

“You’ll be a good pet and do it, and that’s that,” Jim said, and the threat reverberated in every syllable, his eyes glinting with danger, as if daring Seb to keep holding his ground.

Seb wanted to flinch, to turn and run, to curl into a ball, but there was nothing to be done but go through with it. “I can’t tonight. I’ll take it tomorrow, I promise. I’ll skip school to go.”

If he’d thought putting Jim before school might soften his guardian’s wrath, the hope faded when Jim’s expression did not soften. Seb swallowed, and acting on impulse, he turned to disappear into his room.

Jim’s hand closed around his arm in the most unforgiving hold he had ever experienced, and a squeak of pain slipped from Seb as he felt the circulation cut off. The pressure did not last long; Jim swung his body sideways, hurling him against the kitchen table.

The impact forced a groan out of Seb, air briefly vacating his lungs as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. Getting his hands around the table edge, he started to push himself back up, and then grunted in pain as Jim’s hand closed over the back of his neck, the grip unrelenting as he shoved Seb back down, pinning his chest flat against the tabletop. He could feel a tiny pinprick pressure against his ribs, where Jim’s abandoned pen was digging into his side.

Jim’s breath was hot against his skin as he leaned over to speak directly in Seb’s ear. “I don’t take promises, dear...I take complete obedience. And when I don’t receive it, I issue reminders of who is in charge.” His fingers tightened, fingernails pricking the skin faintly, and Seb wriggled against the discomfort, a whimper slipping from his throat.

“Please, I’m sorry...”

His guardian laughed softly,  stepping back and yanking him up before releasing his hold on Seb’s neck, sending him sprawling back onto the tile floor of the kitchen. Leaning over him, Jim grabbed him by the jaw again, while his other hand reached down to unbuckle his leather belt and slide it free. As he folded it in one fist, he gave Seb’s cheek one light, mocking pat, before using the hand to push down on his chest, keeping him on the floor. “No, you’re not really...but you will be.”

Jim's rules were simple. Each time he struck, any sound uttered meant five more strikes. Seb had learned a long time ago how to endure pain in silence.

* * *

John was perched in his usual place at the table, next to Molly, with emptiness at his other side where Seb normally sat. The others were exchanging holiday stories, and while his break had certainly been delightful, John was not about to share any intimate details, so he merely sat quietly, listening with a smile and watching for a familiar blonde head.

When Seb did arrive, crossing the grass toward the group with slow, measured steps, John leapt to his feet in shock. “ _Shit_!”

There were gasps of surprise from behind him as the others looked up as well, but John could not tear his eyes from Seb’s face. His left eye was completely blackened, the lid swollen nearly shut. There was an ugly split in his lip, and he self-consciously wiped his fingers over the gash as if that could seal the skin again. His throat and wrists bore dark bruises, and John couldn’t be sure, but he thought the marks on Seb’s arms must be rope burn. As Seb closed the distance between them, John noticed with a sick jolt that he was limping slightly.

His hand rose, reaching for Seb’s face, but he hesitated, then let it fall. Seb’s good eye flickered up to meet his gaze, before dropping again, as if he could not bear the pity on John’s face. At last John found his voice. “What...happened?” he asked hoarsely, raw grief edging his tone.

A tight, weary smile pulled at Seb’s mouth, making him wince as the cut stretched. “It’s okay,” he said, and he sounded raspy. “I, uh...I broke the rules. I got what was coming.” At last he looked up properly, his eyes pleading with John not to push him. “It’s okay,” he repeated.

John could feel his entire body shaking slightly, trembling with rage as he stared at his friend’s injuries. “What the hell kind of rules could lead to this?” he demanded, struggling to keep his voice low. Their friends were watching anxiously, but not even Molly dared to come interrupt the two boys.

Seb looked as though he might shatter in the face of John’s anger. One hand came up to rest on his shoulder, giving it a tiny, desperate squeeze, and then he crossed around him, sinking onto the bench beside Molly and placing his head on his arms. There was a moment of silence, and then Molly shot a look at the others. The conversation resumed, stilted and too cheerful, as though everyone were not staring worriedly at Seb’s still frame.

Gazing at his friend’s slumped shoulders, the bruises on his wrists standing out against the pale skin like wordless cries for help, John experienced the horrible, overwhelming conviction that somehow, Seb’s beating was his own fault.

* * *

When John arrived home that afternoon, he found Sherlock reading on the sofa. Crossing to him immediately, the teen curled up against his side, tucking himself beneath his lover’s arm. Surprised, Sherlock discarded his paper, holding John close and leaning in to kiss him gently. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his hand rising from John’s arm to stroke through his hair.

John smiled faintly, tipping his face to nuzzle into Sherlock’s neck. “Maybe I just missed touching you all day,” he joked, but it sounded flat to his own ears. Sherlock returned his smile anyway, and for a few minutes they merely kissed lazily, Sherlock’s slender fingers playing lightly with John’s shirt collar, making him shiver pleasantly. The sense of safety and certainty that he always found in Sherlock’s presence returned to him, restoring his equilibrium.

At last he drew back, letting out a small sigh and leaning his head against his guardian’s shoulder. “I am upset,” he admitted. He hesitated, wondering if it was some sort of breach of confidence. But if he could not turn to Sherlock for help, then what was the point? “It’s Seb,” he continued quietly, and when Sherlock merely nodded, gesturing for him to continue, John blew out a breath and pressed on. “He’s--he was badly beaten up today.” His eyes closed, the image of the other boy’s wounds seared in his mind. “Black eye, busted lip, and bruises like...like strangle marks...on his neck. And what I’m pretty sure were rope burns on his hands.”

John raised his eyes to Sherlock’s, seeing his own horror reflected there. “I _know_ he’s being abused, but he won’t admit it to me, and...and truth be told, I’m really scared that it’s getting worse because of me.”

Frowning, Sherlock shifted to see him more clearly, still keeping an arm firmly around him. “Why do you think that?”

These thoughts were still fresh, flickering in and out of shape, but John tried to voice them anyway, choosing each word with caution. “The way that Seb used to talk, about us both having unrequited loves. And the way he wasn’t just accepting of me being with you--he was outright thrilled for us, not minding that I didn’t feel as strongly for him as he did for me...well. I think he’s in love with his guardian, same as I am--”

He cut off with that confession, flushing slightly as he glanced up at Sherlock. His lover merely smiled gently, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. “Yes,” he murmured, and John couldn’t help his relieved grin, but it faded quickly as he remembered his point.

“But whoever that is--Seb’s guardian--whether or not he knows about me, or about how Seb feels...the thing is, Seb has gotten much strongly since I’ve known him. His guardian must see that Seb is getting happier, without him, and he’s punishing him for it. So even though--or maybe because--I can’t be with him the way he wanted, it’s my fault Seb is getting beaten by someone he loves, because they’re in control and he doesn’t know how to say no, and he’s only got himself for defense. You know?”

Sherlock sounded troubled when he replied. “It does make sense. But Seb’s not weak; truthfully I would’ve thought he’d have the courage to stand up for himself.”

John swallowed, gazing off into space as he thought about the boy he’d come to know and care so deeply for. The way he looked at John with such honest dedication, and yet would never so much as touch John without knowing unequivocally that he was wanted. John’s voice was soft. “Seb’s brave, but not for his own sake. He’s only strong enough to make others happy.” Worry tightened his throat, choking him. “And it’s going to get him killed.”

Sherlock pulled him closer, one hand rubbing reassuringly over his back. “Don’t worry. We’ll have dinner, go to bed--” That made John smile a little, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s throat, and his lover chuckled as John slid one thigh over his legs, stroking his free hand down John’s side. “And tomorrow while you’re both at school, I’ll investigate. Okay?”

Nodding against his neck, John kissed the sensitive skin beneath his ear, breathing out a “Thank you,” before nibbling lightly at the lobe. Every sensation rippled through him like fire, from the vibration of Sherlock’s groan as he surrendered, to the hot sweep of his hands sliding beneath John’s school shirt, to the thundering of their heartbeats syncing up as they pressed together, the rest of the world falling away.

* * *

With some mild persuasion--women may not be his type, in any way, but they did seem to find Sherlock charming if he tried to be--he was able to secure Seb’s home address from the school office. There was no parent or guardian named on the papers.

The information led him to a small block of flats in a quiet neighborhood, the silence almost disconcerting after the busier streets nearer the school. Sherlock knocked lightly on the front door, and after a moment a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair in twin braids appeared, smiling stiffly at him. “Can I help you?”

He didn’t get the feeling that charm would work in this case. Everything about her screamed cynicism and deceit, and there was a sharp look in her eyes that he didn’t care for at all. “Hello,” he said, opting for a neutral tone. “I’m looking for the guardian of Sebastian Moran.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, looking like she’d rather shut the door in his face than help him. Her voice remained flatly polite. “Sure. He lives upstairs, with Jim. I’m their neighbor, Kitty.” She hesitated for a second more, than stepped back to allow him inside.

Smiling irritably, Sherlock entered. “Pleasure. Thank you.”

At the top of the stairs, he knocked again, and almost immediately there were footsteps crossing the room, shoes tapping softly on the wood floor.

When the door opened, Sherlock recognized the man at once, despite the fact that he had only seen him in the background of grainy news footage on the telly. It was the same man who had collected Seb the day that Jennifer Wilson was killed. Sherlock opened his mouth, but found himself unsure how to initiate.

The other man beat him to it, smiling broadly as if they were old friends. “Sherlock Holmes! How delightful, so glad you could visit.”

For a moment, Sherlock was truly speechless. He did not know how Seb’s guardian would know his name, and the familiarity of his greeting was disconcerting and discomforting. He stared back at him, distinctly agitated to find himself so off-balance.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, my dear--I know all about you, you’re the one looking after Seb’s little rugby mate,” the other man explained, his tone dipping far too deeply into innuendo to be an accident as he referred to John.

Against his will, Sherlock felt his shoulders stiffen at the condescension, and he knew the shorter man would notice, would see that he’d struck a nerve. That sickening grin widened. “Call me Jim. Here, come in, come in!” Gesturing behind himself, he indicated two armchairs near the window. “Make yourself comfortable. Tea?”

Sherlock crossed the room, sinking down with a muttered, “Please.” Apparently he had been expected, judging by the tea already sitting next to two cups on the table between them. Jim poured both, nudging one closer to his left hand. Pursing his lips, Sherlock turned it around to align with his dominant hand. Jim’s smile evolved into a smirk.

The silence was thick and stifling for several minutes, both men drinking quietly as they sized one another up. At last Jim set his cup back down, and steepled his fingers together. “Well, now, I’d be flattered if it was the case, but I know you didn’t come all the way across town just for a brand of tea you don’t drink, and a staring match.”

Sherlock frowned, eyeing his opponent--for this was a game, and he wasn’t certain he had any kind of upper hand--and drained the last of his tea. “I assume that you know why I’m here.”

Jim laughed, sitting back leisurely and tugging his tie straighter, the picture of ease. “I suppose I do. Did Johnny-boy come running home to cry that Seb looked a little worse for wear, yesterday?”

Setting his cup down, Sherlock leaned back as well, folding his legs carefully. Every move mattered in a game of chess. His voice was softer now, edging toward lethal. “His name is John.” Jim’s expression did not shift, and Sherlock sighed. “And yes, he was fairly concerned by the evidence of domestic violence Sebastian bore.”

His words made Jim chuckle again, absently tugging a mobile from his breast pocket and checking it, before he leaned forward to select a biscuit from the tea tray. Glancing back up at Sherlock through his lashes, he shrugged. “Is it still domestic ‘violence’ when the ‘victim’ is begging for every blow?” he asked with mock thoughtfulness, his eyes dancing. At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, Jim made a soft _tsk_ sound, shaking his head in amusement. “Not in that manner, not ‘asking for it’...though truthfully, the dear boy does adopt such a cheeky attitude sometimes, just to push me. No, but I do honestly mean _begging_. Not every time, to be fair--not when it’s a punishment, as yesterday’s little incident was. But most days, my boy really does prefer to be handled quite roughly.”

Sherlock could not hide the revulsion that colored his voice. “That was a _punishment_? What could possibly merit such abuse?”

Jim raised one eyebrow, his expression bland but his eyes ablaze. “Oh, now, Mr. Holmes, we both know the answer to that. My sweet boy has been slipping up, fading away from me--and I know who’s to blame.”

The implied threat made Sherlock stiffen again, his fingers tightening on his thigh as he worked to keep his breathing steady. He needed to move the conversation back away from John. "So you brutally beat him into submission? What does that accomplish, besides destroying him gradually through sheer terror?”

A sneer curled the corner of Jim’s mouth, making his face colder. "Look, I know it's all a little much, being so rough with him--but it's simply irresistible. Seb adores me. He takes all I can dish out and then some--and he always asks for more. He just wants to obey me. To make me happy." He said the word as if it were hilarious to imagine that Seb could please him. “And I do so love to watch him break again and again, only to come crawling back to my feet like a good little dog.”

The pure sadism of it made Sherlock’s voice shake slightly when he replied. “I’ll report you.”

That made Jim laugh outright, his head tipping back in mirth. "Oh, now that's just the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? Do you _really_ want the police poking their noses in, looking for lottery kids being abused? Or, shall we say, being taken advantage of?” His brow rose knowingly. “Put the spotlight on one questionable guardian, and you'll get some illumination of your own, Sherlock Holmes. And I promise you, I can make it far harder on you than anything they'd manage to pin me for."

Jim selected another biscuit, turning it over in his fingers as Sherlock stared at him. "Sure, I've hit the boy a few times...and perhaps we’ve done more. But if anyone asks Sebby, he'd never say so. He'd never let them take me away; he needs me too much." He smiled coldly. "But you? Dear me, Mr. Holmes. We both know Johnny would never be willing to lie and hide your...special bond. Even your big brother couldn't keep you out of their clutches if you're exposed for sexual abuse."

The ugliness of the two words stunned Sherlock, and he shook his head in disbelief. “That’s...not what is happening.”

Again, Jim merely chuckled softly. "No, it isn’t--but is that the point? Will anyone take a teenager seriously if he says he's in love with his guardian, a man nearly a decade older than he is? Or will they say he's been corrupted, manipulated...used." He grinned at the fear filling Sherlock’s eyes. "No, it's best we just mind our business, and allow others to handle theirs, Mr. Holmes. You leave Seb in my capable hands, exactly where he wants to be. And you take care of that sweet boy of yours--however you see fit."

It felt as if Sherlock had become untethered from the earth, unsupported by gravity. His mind leapt from thought to thought, struggling to recover some control over the situation. "But...Seb is unhappy. He is in pain, and afraid. You said yourself he’s, what, slipping away? He's trying to escape from you."

The expression on Jim’s face could have been an attempt at a smile, but really it was just a baring of teeth. “And I'll bring him to heel again, as I always do."

It was rapidly becoming too much, and Sherlock stood, staring down at the other man in disgust. “You can’t control someone else’s life this way.”

Jim stood as well, slowly, straightening his suit jacket as if he hadn’t a care in the world. "But I can, and I do. And that’s just as he wants it, as well. I think it's best you go now, Mr. Holmes, and get your thoughts in order before your schoolboy lover is home from classes." Crossing the room, Jim opened the door, giving Sherlock one last serene smile. "Been lovely chatting, Sherlock. I do so appreciate your coming by."

For the count of several heartbeats, Sherlock could only stare at him. There was nothing left to be said, and he wanted nothing more than to be far away from the sadist in front of him. Anger and pain and fear coursed through him, because he already knew the decision that he would be forced to make, and he did not want to confront it.

Dropping his gaze from Jim’s smirk, he strode past the other man and left quickly.

* * *

Mycroft was seated as his desk at the Diogenes when he heard the door to the next room open, and then Anthea’s voice as she greeted the newcomer, the words too low for him to make out. Sherlock’s unmistakable baritone replied, and after a moment, Anthea opened the door, admitting his brother.

The older Holmes leaned back, studying his sibling thoroughly as Sherlock entered, crossing to pour himself a small glass of brandy while he allowed himself to be analyzed. When he came to the desk and sat down opposite Mycroft, his older brother evaluated his face, then finally let out a long, quiet breath.

“Were you trying to conceal this from me, when you had our last check-in by phone, rather than in-person?”

Sherlock winced slightly, his eyes dropping guiltily to his drink. “I don’t know how it came to this,” he said quietly, then looked back up at Mycroft with genuine regret in his glasz eyes. “But it’s gone too far now.”

He could see how much Mycroft was struggling to reign in his frustration when he replied. “Yes, Sherlock, it really has.” He frowned, folding his hands on the desktop. “We can’t let this get out. I do understand, brother,” he added, gently, when Sherlock looked down again, his eyes flashing at the thought of another “scandal” his brother would have to hide for his sake. “I watched the bond between you grow, and I was pleased that you were happy, but I...I had hoped that you would wait. John will be older, someday.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, uncomfortable with the intimate direction the conversation was taking. “What has to happen?”

Mycroft sighed again, more heavily this time. “You know what must happen.”

Looking as if he wanted to throw his brandy glass against the wall, Sherlock stared at the dark paneling instead, brows drawn together in unhappiness and resentment. His jaw clenched, the words emerging strained and bitter. “When?”

“Immediately. I will be there with you when he returns home from school.”

Setting the glass on the desk, Sherlock stood, shaking, and left the office without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angsty cliffhanger (is this a cliffhanger?). Couldn't stay happy forever, could we?
> 
> I believe this is the first time I've ever been able to dive in and give my Seb a backstory. That was...kind of delightful. I love him so much.


	11. It Only Burns When I Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...he made no attempt to say goodbye."
> 
> Chapter title from "Can't Let You Go" by Adam Lambert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Kiss Me Fool" by Fefe Dobson; John POV  
> *-"Running Away" by Hoobastank; John POV  
> -"Can’t Let You Go" by Adam Lambert; Sherlock POV  
> -"Wrecking Ball" by Miley Cyrus; John POV
> 
> Okay, I apologize profusely for how short it is. The last time this happened was with Sparks Fly; I wrote pivotal moments and didn't realize until way too late that they're very brief pivotal moments.
> 
> I'm also shocked to realized how close to the end we are! The next chapter has the climax, and the next has the resolution. And then there is an epilogue to tell you where everyone ends up. :)

John knew something was wrong the moment he entered the flat. Sherlock was in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin and staring vaguely into space, a small frown creasing his forehead.

More alarmingly, Mycroft was seated in John’s usual place, and the solemnity of his expression halted John in his tracks as he closed the door behind him.

He lowered his schoolbag, looking to Sherlock for some kind of cue, but his lover did not acknowledge him. John took a hesitant step forward, then stopped, glancing uneasily at the older Holmes brother. “What’s...what’s up?”

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his hands rising to mirror Sherlock’s position as he studied John intently. There was kindness, concern, and regret in his gaze, and John’s stomach was in knots before he even opened his mouth. “John, you are being removed from resident care and returning home, with no alterations or repercussions to your lottery financial benefits.”

The words bounced and clattered around in John’s head for a long moment, reshaping and rearranging themselves until their meaning penetrated, and white-hot anger--as well as sheer terror--flooded his system, making his voice ratchet up with panic as he turned to stare at Sherlock. “You can’t seriously be agreeing to this.” When Sherlock did not look up, didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all, John’s hands clenched at his sides. “Sherlock! You can’t let them take me away!”

Still his guardian did not meet his gaze or speak, merely frowning into space over the tips of his fingers. John closed the space between them in two long strides, leaning over and seizing him by his jacket lapels. “Don’t--” His voice broke; swallowing, he tried again. “Don’t let this happen.”

With John directly in his face as he was, Sherlock’s eyes had dropped to focus on the floorboards between John’s feet. Still horribly, coldly silent, he reached up, gently grasping John’s hands and tugging them loose from his jacket. Then he stood, forcing John to stumble back a pace as Sherlock released his hands, before he walked away toward the table, turning his back on the distraught teenager.

Mycroft stood as well, coming closer to John, and rested one hand lightly on his shoulder, steadying him. It was only then that John realized how hard he was shaking. He stared at his guardian’s back, taking in the stiffness of his shoulders and the straight, unyielding line of his spine, and horror washed through him anew as he grasped what must have happened.

John took one small step forward, his hand lifting unconsciously to reach for Sherlock, to reconnect them and bring back the tranquility of the day before, the sense of rightness between them, but there was nothing he could think to say or do that might change this. His feet stilled, his hand dropped, and he turned back to Mycroft with tortured eyes, knowing his question would be clear enough on his face. _He turned himself in_?

Mycroft nodded gently, his expression full of compassion as John processed this impossibility. He must have seen the terror in the boy’s eyes, because he smiled kindly, returning his hand to John’s shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly. “Nothing bad is going to happen,” he murmured, though of course Sherlock could hear him, would know what fear John had wordlessly expressed. “There will be no ramifications. It’s simply time for you to be with your family again. They need you.”

John sucked in a breath, wanting to argue further even though he knew it was futile, and Mycroft cut him off with another touch on his arm. His voice was unbearably gentle. “Your mother is dying, John. She was just moved to the hospital yesterday, and she won’t be leaving again. Your father needs you there with him.” His gaze shifted past John, giving him a moment to compose himself at that news.

Guiltily, John still found himself wavering for several heartbeats. It worried him that his father had not called, but he also thought that he understood; he could only imagine how fragile and afraid his dad must be now, and as long as John was safely looked after by the lottery system, he likely wasn’t as worried about his son.

John looked over his shoulder, seeing that Sherlock had not turned around, was not acknowledging him at all even now, and the surge of betrayal he felt at his indifference spurred John to anger.

Shaking off Mycroft’s hand, John grabbed his schoolbag off the floor. “Can you send someone to pick my things up later?” he asked Mycroft tersely, wishing he could see Sherlock’s face, see if his bitter tone had any effect on the man who had promised him just yesterday that he loved him.

Mycroft nodded in agreement, picking his umbrella up off the floor and going to hold the door for the teenager. John did not look back at Sherlock as he stalked out the door and down the stairs, and he made no attempt to say goodbye.

It was not until the downstairs door slammed shut behind them that Sherlock turned around. Glancing around the empty living room, feeling the distinct coldness of a space that has been abandoned by the only source of real warmth to have ever occupied it, he crossed to his chair and sank back down, at last letting his shoulders tremble from the flashes of pain that flickered through him like little bolts of lightning.

Eventually, he closed his eyes against the silence and the stillness, and folded forward to drop his head into his hands.

* * *

_Two Days Later_

The blank white walls of the hospital room made John’s eyes sting. There was nothing to distract him, no real color; only white and beige, and the blinking green light of the monitor that reported his mother’s faltering heartbeat. John stared at his mother lying in the bed, her eyes closed and her breathing irregular, fighting a losing battle with the cancer.

His father was slumped over in the chair beside the bed, one hand extended to limply hold his wife’s as he dozed. Swallowing hard around the lump that had not left his throat since he had returned to his parents’ house earlier in the week, John crossed around the bed to his father’s side.

“Hey,” he said quietly, nudging the older man’s arm until he stirred and opened his eyes. Mr. Watson blinked blearily, then looked up at his son with worn out, bloodshot eyes. “Go get some coffee, or something to eat,” John suggested, smiling weakly. “You need to move around a little. And if you keep sleeping here, you’ll end up awake all night, and with a crick in your neck.”

His father chuckled sadly, nodding as he stood. “Yeah, I know. You’ll stay here with her?”

“‘Course.” Watching his father slowly leave the room, John fell into the abandoned chair, and for several long moments of painful silence, he simply gazed at his mother’s emaciated figure. He knew they were down to her final days, but the idea of life without her just didn’t seem like a real possibility.

He and his dad had been taking turns sitting with her, making sure someone was always there beside her while the other got some rest. Harry had made a few appearances, but had refused to stay in the room alone, leaving it up to her father and brother.

If John was honest, he’d rather just stay here full-time, close to one person who actually needed him. When he was at the house, he found himself pacing restlessly, unable to focus long on homework and uninterested in anything recreational. He had not told anyone at school except for Seb that he had moved back home, though the others did know that his mother was dying. All of his friends were exceptionally kind, giving him the space he indicated he wanted.

And although he could see that Seb wanted to do something--anything--for him, as always, he did not pressure John, and John did not seek his comfort. He did not want to talk about the circumstances under which he’d been forced to leave Sherlock. When he did manage to sleep, it was more exhausting than restful, fitful and broken by the nightmare memory of Sherlock turning his back on him, refusing to even meet his gaze.

He would wake in a panic, his heart pounding, and feel torn between crying and cursing. So he returned to the hospital each day, spending as much time as he was allowed to in this soulless, bland room, watching someone else he loved fade away.

A sudden gentle grip around his hand startled him, and he jumped a little when he found his mother awake and looking at him. She was smiling, but there was too much pain for the expression to look right, and John’s heart squeezed in agony at the obvious strain it took for her just to keep her eyes open.

Her voice was impossibly faint. “You need to sleep, sweetheart.”

John smiled wearily, clasping her too-cool hand between both of his and lifting it to press a kiss to the paper-dry skin. “I’d rather stay here beside you,” he answered, trying not to sob at how fragile her hand felt as she tried to hold onto his.

Mrs. Watson’s gaze sharpened marginally as she studied her son’s face, and her hand shifted, fingertips brushing lightly over the metal band of her old wedding ring, still snugly in its place on his little finger. While she spoke, she continued to stroke his hand, the faint touch soothing. “You seem so different, now,” she murmured, peering at his face as if it were a book, spelling out her child’s life story. “It feels...like you must have found some kind of incredible happiness, but you’re sad again now.” Her eyes brightened, with tears this time, and her hand flexed around his. “My poor boy has had to grow up so quickly.”

John did not want to add any stress to her heart, but he could not hide the grief that pinched his voice. He longed for his childhood days, before she ever got sick, when confiding in his sweet, loving mother had been effortless and comforting. “You’re right,” he admitted in something close to a whisper. “The thing is--” His voice cracked, and he coughed, ducking his head to clear his throat before he could look up at her again. “The thing is, I think I fell in love for the first time.” He chuckled when her face lit up, leaning down to press another light kiss to her hand. “But they...let me down. I got my heart broken, and it’s killing me.”

His voice cracked again at the last word, and he swallowed hard, keeping his forehead pressed against the sheets. After a moment he felt his mother’s second hand come over to cover his head, stroking through the hair tenderly. The familiarity of the gesture ached physically, like a punch to the chest, but he did not tell her to stop.

Her voice was tired, but fond, and somehow proud. “Life is full of all these big moments,” she said softly. “Big and frightening moments, both good and bad. But you must never run away from them, John. You can’t shut down when something good passes by, or when something bad leaves you shaken. There will always be more big moments.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Find things that make you happy, and keep waiting for the next big moment.”

John turned to press his lips against her the pale skin of her hand, not bothering to hide it when the tears welled up, and he began to cry quietly.

* * *

If John had been looking toward the door, he might have noticed Sherlock pause in the hallway, gazing in at the teen where he was curled over clutching his mother’s hands.

Sherlock hesitated, taking one more small step toward the doorway, then stopped himself, watching John helplessly. He wanted so desperately to go in, to wrap John in his arms and protect him from his current misery and his impending loss. But there was nothing alright about that.

Turning on his heel, he strode back down the hall to where Mycroft stood beneath the EXIT sign, waiting for him with concerned eyes.

As they left the hospital, Mycroft looked over at his brother, then turned his gaze ahead again. “I’m relieved by your decision,” he said gravely, and Sherlock looked skyward, frustration and anger competing with acknowledgement in his stony stare. Mycroft pressed on. “It would have been cruel to disturb him during such a raw moment.”

Sherlock nodded, saying nothing as they returned to the car.

* * *

John’s mother died a few days later. The funeral was small and private, just the three remaining Watsons and a select few friends and relatives. Harry moved back in while they planned the reception, and the three of them found an uneasy peace living together, while a silence like death weighed down the broken little family.

John knew that his father was feeling lost and disconnected, too shattered by the loss of his wife to focus properly on parenting his equally damaged children. From Harry, he felt only bitterness and anger. For his part, John felt utterly abandoned, deserted and unsure how to move forward with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's weird? It's always Sherlock being the douche who breaks John's heart trying to "do the right thing." Next time, we're turning the tables. In "Like the Northern Light" (heeeeey, title chosen!), John's the one who dramatizes everything briefly. Woot.


	12. Save What's Left of My Heart and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In a moment of dark clarity, John found himself filled with a cold, calming rage."
> 
> Chapter title from "Ghost of You and Me," by BBMak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Ghost of You and Me" by BBMak; John POV  
> -"Cat and Mouse" by RedJumpsuit Apparatus; Seb/John POV  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI; Seb POV [final scene]  
> -"Broken Glass" by Three Days Grace; Seb POV
> 
> CHAPTER WARNING for scene of violence against a minor, and for non-canonical death of a canon character.
> 
> If I need to add more warnings, please let me know in the comments!

A few days after John’s mother was buried, Mycroft called him. “I made arrangements with the lottery service, and with the school,” he told John in a gentle voice. It was the _I’m an adult, I’ll look after you_ voice, the one that John had come to despise. “Because you are still in the system, they agreed that there’s no need to redefine your residence requirements, so you’ll remain in your current school until you finish. I hope that’s alright with you,” he’d added, almost seeming surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that John might not want to go back.

John sighed, tipping his head back against the hallway wall as he watched his father at the dining room table, not eating his dinner. John’s stomach writhed. “Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks, Mycroft.”

There was a pause, and he wanted so desperately to ask, and for a moment he actually hoped Mycroft would take pity on him and just _tell_ him how Sherlock was--

“Very good. You can always call me if you need anything, John.” Mycroft was the epitome of professional. “I am so sorry about your mother. I hope your family is doing alright.”

The desire to bite through his own lip in frustration clashed with the impulse to swear and scream into his mobile. John closed his eyes, pressing his skull back against the faded yellow paint as if it would lessen the dull throbbing that pounded in his brain. “We’re...fine. I’d better go, it’s supper.”

He hung up without waiting for a response, then stared at his phone for several moments, wondering what would happen if he called Sherlock. He had almost hoped, foolishly, stupidly, that he would phone John when he heard about his mother’s passing, that maybe he would stop by, or even come to the funeral. _Ridiculous_. John clenched his jaw, pocketing his phone and returning to the table, and the oppressive silence that lingered over his broken family.

* * *

On Monday he returned to school, crossing the road under a fittingly overcast sky and wishing that his stomach would stop feeling as if it were full of stones and snakes. His friends were gathered in their usual place, and they all murmured greetings and soft words of condolence, but even Molly did not reach out to offer any physical contact.

It was Seb, standing a few feet apart from the others, who silently held out an arm, and John sank into his embrace gratefully. Seb looked much better now, his injuries healing well, eyes bright and alert once more. The bruises had faded, and the cut on his lip had sealed shut. When their eyes met, John knew without asking that Seb was alright for now, and that it was John’s turn to be the one who _needed_.

He said nothing, and he didn’t have to. To his friends, he offered a quick, tight smile, assuring them that he would be okay. The bell rang, and Seb turned to guide him into the school, keeping his arm firmly around John’s shoulders.

After practice John made his way back to their spot, beneath the bleachers, and though the thought crossed his mind, he did not bothering texting his dad that he’d be a while longer. He honestly doubted his father was quite aware yet that John lived in the house again. Tugging a textbook out of his bag, John opened it on his lap, staring unseeingly at the blurry black letters, wondering without caring which book he had pulled out.

Seb crawled in after him, slumping to the chilly grass and tugging a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. The sight stunned John, and for a moment he could only stare as Seb pulled one out and lit it, not even glancing at him.

The ease and familiarity of the motions were telling enough, but suddenly John was simply far too tired to care. He had something more important to say.

He closed his book, leaving it on his knees and leaning his weight against the cover. After a long pause, he turned to look at Seb, who tilted his head in acknowledgement, though he continued to gaze vaguely into space.

“My world doesn’t really make sense to me, right now,” John began softly. “I don’t like knowing that my mother isn’t in it anymore, and...I don’t understand why Sherlock isn’t, either. I want to just shrug all of this off, and move on somehow, but,” John bit his lip, eyes flicking down to his hands, watching them tremble on the edges of the textbook.

“I think I have to ride the emotions out. So,” he took a deep breath. “I think it will be a while before I’m ready to be with anyone in any functional sense.” He glanced up again, peering at Seb through his eyelashes. “I’m really hoping you’re willing to wait it out with me.” His voice rose by the end of the sentence, half turning into a question.

Seb nodded, slowly, and took a long drag from the cigarette before snuffing it out in the dirt beside him. Exhaling the smoke in a foggy plume, he smiled faintly. “I will always care about you, no matter what happens,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And whatever you want, or need, I will always be here for you, to the best of my ability.” His expression turned slightly self-deprecating. “Besides, I have some...damage...of my own to handle, so I guess we’re really just in this together.”

John’s throat tightened, a sob rising in his chest that he pushed down viciously, because a part of him wished he could have met Seb in an entirely different world, one where they would have been perfectly happy, with no interferences. “Thank you,” he whispered tightly, and reached out with both arms to wrap them around Seb in a fierce hug. To his relief, Seb returned it warmly.

* * *

Seb was not at school on Tuesday. After the events of the last few weeks, John could no longer dismiss the immediate panic that welled up in his chest when the bell rang, and there was no sign of the other boy. Their friends were unperturbed, conversations carrying on into the school building, and even Molly did not seem to notice the absence that felt unbearable to John. He could not shake the memory of Seb’s wounds, or the haunted look in his friend’s eyes as he tried to conceal whatever was happening to him.

It didn’t help that John had no idea if Sherlock had ever kept his promise to investigate Seb’s home life, and that John was left with no way to be sure whether or not Seb was in imminent danger from a threat he knew nothing about.

When they broke for lunch, and Seb still did not arrive, John’s panic became a suffocating pressure that left him struggling to breathe. Feeling trapped, alone, and helpless, he did the only thing he could think of, and dialed the last number to have called his phone.

“John,” Mycroft greeted him in mild confusion. “Aren’t you meant to be in school right now?”

“I am,” John answered, rolling his eyes to himself. It amazed him, how so much in life could be complicated and messy and agonizingly painful, and yet Mycroft was always so utterly unruffled by it all. “But Seb Moran is not, and I don’t know if Sherlock told you any of the stuff I was worried about, but I think something’s wrong. I think he’s in danger.”

Mycroft’s voice had a steel edge to it, as if he were trying very hard not to sound angry with John. “I assure you that Sherlock’s concerns have been made note of, and Sebastian is safe under the protection of Social Services, just as you are. Please return to your lessons, John, everything will be fine.”

The line clicked, and John found himself clenching his jaw so tightly that the bone creaked in protest. He had just about had enough of adults treating him like they had everything under control and never got it wrong. Never failed or abandoned him.

Mycroft answered on the second ring, the irritation now apparent in his tone. “John, honestly--”

“No, stop it!” John snapped, ducking into the bathroom stalls to avoid some passing classmates. “I don’t know what Sherlock’s told you, but Seb isn’t alright! Someone has been _beating_ him--he came to school with his face torn up a few days ago, and all year he’s shown up with bruises and rope burns and God knows what else all over his arms and neck. Don’t tell me he’s safe!”

He stopped, sucking in a deep breath, then spoke again, his voice now tinged with pain. “And don’t you fucking tell me that whatever is happening to Seb didn’t have _something_ to do with Sherlock turning himself in, and dropping me. I don’t know what it was, but something changed, and it wouldn’t have been something you said. Something happened to do with Seb’s abuser, didn’t it?” His voice left no room for argument, and he stopped talking to wait, silently daring Mycroft to contradict him.

Mycroft’s voice was tense, but his reply was steady, as if he had finally realized just how serious John was about this. “Very well, John. Yes, the catalyst for your removal from in-home care with Sherlock was indeed a...confrontation...between himself and Sebastian Moran’s guardian. It is safe to say that he is being abused, but without Sebastian’s own testimony, we cannot get a conviction; if the boy will not name his attacker, we can’t simply charge the ‘most likely’ suspect. There must be genuine evidence. In the eyes of the court, it could just as easily be his classmates bullying him.”

John scoffed at that, because the idea of anyone at their school physically harming the popular, respected co-captain of the rugby team was simply laughable, but there was no point arguing that point with Mycroft. “Look,” he said instead, his voice reverberating with the pent-up rage he could not quell. “Seb’s not here again today, and we have to _do_ something. I _know_ he isn’t safe.”

When Mycroft answered, John heard the finality in his tone, and with a fresh surge of anger he realized that this was a dead end. “I am sorry, John. You must simply let this play out. Social Services and the lottery program have handled these scenarios before, and eventually Sebastian will seek help, and be willing to name and convict his abuser.”

This time, John did not bother calling back. He listened to the silence at the other end of the line for a moment, then pocketed his phone, swallowing his fury and letting his heart harden. If the adults in his life would do nothing to step in, and to protect Seb from what his guardian was doing to him, then John would have to do something about it himself.

Seb did not come to school on Wednesday, either, and John held his breath through the entire day, forcing himself with all of his willpower not to text him.

When Seb did not appear on Thursday morning, though, John’s patience snapped. Feigning illness, he left class and went to the office, waiting in the hallway until the receptionist was distracted. He knew where the student files were kept, thankfully within reach from his side of the counter, and it took less than a moment to find M, and steal the sheet containing Seb’s home address.

It was only when he was standing in front of the block of flats listed on the form that he decided to risk one move that was even stupider than what he was already doing. Tugging out his mobile, he opened his text messages, and typed one last note to Sherlock. He knew he was being melodramatic, but a part of him felt it might be wise to let someone know where he was.

**Text (10:27am)**

_I’m at Seb’s. I am going to help him, because no one else is able or willing to protect us at all._

Silencing his mobile and shoving it into his schoolbag, John climbed the steps and knocked. A redhaired woman opened the door, looking bewildered and then shocked as John pushed past her. The door to the flat behind her was open, leading John to assume it was hers, and he turned and went for the stairs, ignoring her aggravated protest behind him.

There was only one flat upstairs, and John pounded sharply on the door. Within seconds it opened, and he was confronted by a visibly exhausted Seb, whose face flooded with terror when he saw John. “Fuck,” he whispered, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “John, you _can’t be here_ , what the hell are you thinking?” He was trying to shut the door, and John threw a hand up, forcing it open again. “Please,” Seb begged him, “Please, just leave.”

John could barely hear Seb’s words over the furious roaring in his ears. He had never felt such anger as he did now, looking at his friend’s face. Both of Seb’s eyes were blackened, and there was a bruise extending from his right cheekbone down to his jaw, as well as obvious rope burns winding around his throat. His hand, clenched around the edge of the door, bore fresh cigarette burns.

In a moment of dark clarity, John found himself filled with a cold, calming rage. He had watched his mother die slowly and painfully. He was living with a father who did not know how to be alone, and an alcoholic sister who was utterly unable to hold onto her relationships. The person whom he might have loved forever had abandoned him at the first sign of trouble, and now, someone he cared for almost as strongly was suffering terrible abuse, for no other reason than that he _loved_. They had both allowed their loves to hurt them, ruthlessly.

He pushed past Seb, blocking out his voice as Seb called his name desperately. Through the living room and down the hallway, into the first bedroom--clearly Seb’s, judging by the school things scattered around the small, sparsely decorated space--John found him, a black-haired man who he recognized instantly as the one who’d collected Seb on the day that Jennifer Wilson had been murdered.

Seb’s guardian appeared to have been waiting for John, judging by his lack of surprise when the teenager stormed in. He remained seated at the desk, idly smoking a cigarette.

All of John’s anger poured out when he spoke, his voice cracked and raw with rage and condemnation. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demanded. “The way you hurt him--how can you do it?”

He got no verbal response, merely a slow smirk that make his skin burn as if a hot iron had touched it. “You can’t just abuse someone this way!” he snarled, dropping his bag as he took a step closer. “So callously, so heartlessly--you’re responsible for his _care_ , for his well-being! You can’t treat somebody this way when they _love you_!”

Still the other man said nothing. He stood, calmly, reaching out to snuff out the cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. Straightening his suit jacket, he crossed the remaining few feet to meet John, his smile widening fractionally--right before he punched John in the jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Stunned, too surprised even to react to the explosion of pain in his face and neck, John remained down, staring up at his attacker. Seb’s guardian raised one hand to smooth his hair back, looking across John to where Seb was huddled against the doorframe, clearly petrified.

“Please don’t, Jim,” Seb whispered, his voice almost non-existent. But John heard him, and the fear in Seb’s voice sliced through him like an ice-cold knife.

Seb’s plea made Jim’s eyebrows rise, and John had only a heartbeat to brace himself before the older man laughed, short and cold, then swung his foot out to kick John in the ribcage. John swore aloud as the pain burst through his side, hunching in on himself to clutch his chest. Jim paid his agonized shout no mind.

“Is this really what our little problem is, Seb?” His voice was high and soft, almost musical, and the levity in it sent a chill down John’s spine. There was no warmth or compassion, only mild annoyance, and a horrible touch of amusement that left John suddenly very aware that he in far over his head. “ _This_ little nuisance, this waste of oxygen and carbon--this is honestly the reason you’ve been acting out so often lately?”

Seb flushed, ducking his head, and John could not tell if it was shame or anger that reddened his face. Above him, Jim scoffed, reaching up to loosen his tie. “Oh, Seb, you should know better. I haven’t put all of this work into conditioning you into something halfway _useful_ just to have you throw it all away on some useless schoolboy crush.”

He turned away from the boys, reaching over to Seb’s desk to pick something up. To John’s absolute horror, he faced them again holding a closed switchblade up in the air. One thumb stroked almost lovingly along the black handle as he stared Seb down.

“Finish him,” he said quietly, and the words were an order, allowing no room for refusal. The blade was offered to the standing boy, hilt first. “If you get back in line, and do as you’re told, we can forget all of this ridiculous recent rebellion of yours.” A chilling smile graced his lips. “No more punishments over him.”

Seb’s face pinched with abhorrence and fear, and he stepped hesitantly into the room, slipping awkwardly around where John still lay on the floor to reach Jim’s side. “Please,” he whispered, and his voice broke John’s heart, the bare agony in it clawing at his very soul.

“Please, don’t hurt him.” Seb’s eyes flickered down to John, and they were shining with unshed tears. “And please don’t ask me to. If you _ever_ loved me, Jim, ever at all, please, just let him go.”

Jim tilted his head, studying Seb impassively, and then the smirk returned, slow and dangerous, and John sucked in air, a breath that burned his lungs and made his ribs sing with pain, longing to warn Seb, to pull him back from his mad guardian.

But to his shock and revulsion, Jim merely stepped forward, the hand not holding the knife lifting to clasp Seb by the jaw, angling his face up in order to press a kiss to his mouth. Seb’s entire body seemed to deflate beneath the cruel scrap of affection, his shoulders slumping and his hands dropping to his sides, accepting the kiss as if there were no other choice.

Then Jim’s hand flashed out, a glint of steel that John flinched away from, and suddenly one of Seb’s wrists was caught in the pair of handcuffs Jim had produced. The other link closed around the steel bar of the footboard, trapping Seb just out of reach as Jim turned his attention back to John.

John could hear Seb screaming in protest, could hear the clanking of the cuffs as Seb strained against their grip, held prisoner by the weight of the bedframe, but the sounds meant nothing from the moment Jim turned on him.

The closed knife was still in his fist as his free hand clenched in the front of John’s school shirt, and John caught a flash of the black metal when Jim drew his arm back. Then he was beating John, landing punches on his face, across his chest, into his belly. Jim did not restrain the full force of his blows whatsoever. John could hear the noises he was making, heard himself try to shriek in agony under the onslaught, but it was lost in the white noise of pain, and under the endless falling of Jim’s fist, he distantly wondered how Seb had lived this way, how he had endured such horrific poundings.

At some point, he could no longer gather the breath needed to produce any noise, only able to focus on the ugly cracking of bone on bone, the splintering shards of burning pain filling his face and chest and gut, and on the faraway, surreal sound of Seb shouting himself hoarse. Desperately John latched onto that, trying to maintain awareness of Seb, to remember that his friend was still there, still with him.

A sickening crack broke the spell, distracting Jim, and through swollen eyelids John was able to register that Seb had moved, had apparently dislocated his own thumb in order to slip the cuffs. Seb launched himself at Jim’s back, awkwardly managing to throw his uninjured hand around around his guardian’s neck, attempting to drag him off of John.

Jim scrambled for a moment, losing his balance and releasing John as he stumbled away from him. Straining to reach backward, Jim managed to grab hold of Seb’s hanging hand, the thumb of which was jutting inward unnaturally, the flesh already bruising. Seb yelped in pain as Jim squeezed, mercilessly, and he instinctively let go, which allowed Jim to buck him off onto the floor. As Seb fell, Jim shot John a calculating look, then shook his head and turned his attention back to his ward.

Seb was crying openly now, tears shining on his cheeks as he clutched his swollen hand to his chest, lying still on his side. Without a word Jim seized his shirt-front and socked him in the jaw, worsening the already-existing bruise.

John struggled to protest, but all that emerged from his mouth was blood, and he spat it angrily onto the hardwood floor, desperate to clear his throat. Numb horror filled his veins as Jim punched Seb in the stomach, then shoved him down onto his back, straightening to pin him with one foot on his chest as he unlocked the switchblade with an almost leisurely flick of his wrist. The faint _snick_ of the blade opening was deafening in John’s ears.

Holding the knife up to inspect it, Jim leaning leaned down over Seb, and his voice was glacial, any hint of tenderness toward Seb now totally evaporated from it. “You had so much potential, you know,” he murmured, his finger rubbing absently over the handle, eyes locking on Seb’s face as the teen stared back up at him, tears still silently coursing down his cheeks. “So much, but for your insatiable need to be _needed_.” His free hand reached down, stroking over Seb’s cheekbones, swiping away the clear saline and wiping it impatiently off on Seb’s t-shirt.

“If it helps at all,” he continued, straightening again, “You shouldn’t really see this as a betrayal. I had very high hopes for you, Seb, but...no, I didn’t ever love you the way you wanted me to. Not the way you craved from me. You were useful, but never indispensable.”

Beneath his foot, Seb’s face was changing at Jim’s words, shifting into a hard mask of bitter anger that darkened his features into something ugly and broken. Glaring up at Jim, he raised his undamaged hand to brush away his own tears, lips pressed together as if biting back his response. And then, for a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to meet John’s, taking in the horror and pain in the other boy’s face as he observed the unfolding scene.

Jim removed his foot, stepping back to finish the fight, and Seb swept his good arm out, striking the back of his guardian’s legs and bringing him tumbling down on top of Seb.

For a moment that would be forever suspended in time in John’s memory, the two men grappled with each other, rolling and writhing on the floor.

Then Jim grunted, as if surprised, and his back stiffened where he was pressed down over Seb’s smaller frame. Underneath his weight, Seb let out a terrible sound, small and startled like a wounded animal, and both bodies went dangerously still.

John sucked in a terrified breath, oblivious to the pain that exploded into fireworks all across his wounded upper body. “Seb?” he called out, faintly, fear radiating through him.

There was movement, Seb twitching back to life, slowly pushing Jim off of himself. The moment Jim landed on his back, John realized what must have happened.

As Seb had been struggling to push away the hand clutching the knife, Jim’s arm had moved too far, thrusting the open blade into his own side. From what he could see, squinting against his own pain, John was certain it must have punctured a lung.

Jim lay on his back, gasping shallowly, his eyes wide and unfocused. With a hiss of pain, he reached down, yanking the knife out and throwing it aside.

The clatter seemed to reanimate Seb, and he forced himself to his knees with a gasped, “No, Jim, don’t--” His good hand fumbled to press over the wound, attempting to apply pressure even as the blood began to spread, crimson staining the white cotton of Jim’s shirt.

Jim was continuing to draw deep breaths, staring up at Seb with an odd look on his face, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of the teenager. John could see the light fading, could hear the way his breath began to rattle, the oxygen seeping out of his perforated lung and into his chest cavity, rapidly suffocating him. Jim’s voice was nothing more than a dying wheeze. “Seb...”

When Jim stopped breathing, the only sound that remained was Seb crying quietly, small broken sobs, like those of a lost child, afraid and alone.

John shifted forward, wanting to reaching out to him, and unbidden a small whimper of pain escaped him as his ribs protested the motion. Seb heard him, though, and his eyes snapped up, widening in horror as he took in John’s bloodied state.

Turning his back on Jim’s still figure, he crawled awkwardly over to John, clasping his hand and pressing it to his own tear-stained, bruised cheek. “John,” he whispered brokenly, and his eyes were empty, as if he had nothing left inside.

John abruptly became aware that the edges of his vision were growing fuzzy, blackness easing in on him, tendrils of sleepy painless nothingness tugging at him and trying to draw him away from Seb. He could still feel the heat of the other boy beside him, still hear him murmuring John’s name over and over, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And then he could hear Mycroft above him-- _why was he there, how had he known to come_? Mycroft was speaking to Seb, must have been pulling on his arm, because his hand was tugging against John’s, and then releasing it, and John made a tiny sound of pain, not wanting him to leave, but Mycroft was reassuring them both--“Come now, let the medics take John, let him go”--and there was something urgent that must be said, something he could not let himself slip away without saying--

“Mycroft,” he grunted, spitting out another mouthful of blood, and then he was there leaning over John, and he sucked in air to force the words out, a second thought occurring and distracting him from the first. “Mycroft, where’s--where’s Sherlock?”

He could see the compassion--no, the pity--that sharpened Mycroft’s gaze, and he did not want that. “Rest, now, John,” was the only response, and then there was a cry of pain elsewhere, and he needed to remember, to tell them, but they were lifting him onto a stretcher and _sweet Jesus it hurt_ , but this was important--

His fingers clenched in Mycroft’s jacket lapels, grip unrelenting, and Mycroft ducked close to hear him as he groaned. “Wasn’t--it wasn’t Seb’s fault,” he wheezed. “J...Jim had the knife. Not Seb.” It was so vital, so necessary that he make Mycroft understand.

To his relief, Mycroft nodded, reaching up to squeeze his hand firmly. “Seb will be fine,” he promised, and John’s hand spasmed as it fell away, his muscles no longer obeying him. “I’ll look after him personally.  Just rest.”

Darkness consumed John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay on this one. We spent this week moving to a new city, and the house is finally starting to take shape. And then today I had to go to Urgent Care, because this stupid cut on my thumb got m*therf***ing infected and I had to literally get this thing sliced up and cauterized. Good times. So now my thumb is wrapped up in cotton and I may have to take heavy-duty sleepy meds. -_-
> 
> Not to mention I made the decision to branch into the Supernatural fanfic world, so I have twice as many story ideas pounding in my skull.
> 
> OOH IT'S MY BIG SISTER'S BIRTHDAY NOW I GOTTA CALL HER.


	13. You Got My Head Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and me against the world.”
> 
> Chapter title taken from "All of Me," by John Legend, and it is beautiful coincidence I picked one that contains the story title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"The Reason" by Hoobastank; Sherlock POV  
> -"Crawl" by Superchick; Seb/John POVs  
> -"Fix A Heart" by Demi Lovato; Seb POV  
> -"Love Comes From the Most Unexpected Places" by Barbra Streisand; Sherlock playing violin  
> -*"All of Me" by John Legend; [Reprise] Reunion
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took so long! I started writing in the Supernatural fandom, and hot damn if I haven't started a series that I am helplessly in love with.
> 
> Chapter warnings, hm...angst, references to past abuse, and blatant quoting of canon. And overuse of the * * * page break. I apologize.

When John opened his eyes, for a moment, he thought he must have dreamed it all. He was in a hospital room, lying on his side, and for all of thirty seconds he was certain that he had simply dozed off at his mother’s bedside, and that he would have to relive the bleakness of her death and funeral again, and that Seb was still trapped by an abusive guardian who no one seemed to be able to stop.

And then he saw the flowers.

A tiny vase was on the bedside table, the glass itself almost concealed by the blue and white blossoms that formed a little halo of fragrant petals. His mother had been so fragile at the very end that they had insisted any flowers be kept across the room, so the scent would not affect her.

John became aware that he was lying on a bed, not a chair, and there was the faint pinch of an IV needle in his arm, and the compressing squeeze of a heart-monitor clipped to his left index finger. It was his own hospital room.

He blinked, the flowers coming into better focus. And then his head spun, and he cried out as memories cascaded back in suddenly; the cold smile on Jim’s face, the burst of pain across his entire face when he’d been punched, and the burning agony in his sides as Jim had kicked him. The terrible noise Jim had made when he had stabbed himself. The deadness in Seb’s eyes as he had knelt over John, mere feet away from the corpse of his tormentor, who he’d loved.

John stretched out one hand, his fingers shaking violently, and grabbed the note that was propped up against the vase of flowers.

_I’m sorry._

_~S.H._

Tears welled up, and for once John did not fight them, did not force them back or swallow the knot of grief that bubbled up to explode in his chest and tighten around his throat, an ugly sob ripping from him. He wept, curling in on himself in the bed, concealed from the world by a thin curtain, letting himself fill with rage, and sadness, and loneliness.

John did not know if Sherlock was apologizing for not being there with Mycroft to save him and Seb. He did not know if he was apologizing for abandoning John in the first place. Or if he were merely using safe, contrite words to convey his regrets that John was lying in a hospital bed, damaged and broken in both body and spirit, and a good amount of that was Sherlock’s own fault.

He knew what the flowers were really saying. The fact that they were here, beside his hospital bed, and the man who’d sent them was not, conveyed their true meaning with perfect clarity.

Sherlock was not coming back for him, at all.

* * *

In another bland white room in a different government building, Seb stood next to the window, staring out the glass with lifeless eyes.

The door opened, and Sherlock Holmes stepped inside, leaving it open behind him. Seb froze when he saw him, panic and uncertainty colliding in his chest in a painful and claustrophobic ocean. They were in the Social Services office, where the lottery council and Mycroft Holmes were hastily trying to decide his fate. He did not know what to make of Sherlock appearing here, now.

Seb braced himself, shoulders squaring as he turned to face the older man. His eyes were blank and wide, his hands twitching and spasming at his side, and Sherlock made a mental note to confirm with his brother that they were including PTSD among the factors contributing to Seb’s reassignment. It was clear that the teenager was much more traumatized than he had yet come to terms with.

Seb’s voice was soft and cold. “Are you here to tell me that you’re taking John away?” A shadow of sadness flickered across his face, the only real emotion Sherlock could see there. “I’m not going to be allowed to see him again, am I?”

Considering the blatant symptoms of anxiety and trauma radiating through his body language, and visible in the emptiness in his eyes, Sherlock had to give Seb credit; his voice held no fear. He obviously viewed Sherlock as one more authority figure he could stand up to or crumble against, and he was choosing the former.

Sherlock smiled at Seb, but he knew there was no happiness in the expression. The best he could do for both boys would be to back off, and to let them begin the long road to recovery that lay ahead of them.

He drew a deep breath, meeting Seb’s eyes. “Take care of him for me,” he said quietly, then turned away, leaving the room without waiting for Seb to assemble a response.

* * *

When John was cleared from the hospital the following week, he was not all that surprised to find Mycroft sitting in his living room waiting for him. The older Holmes brother merely nodded to him in greeting, allowing him to hand his things to his father and get settled in the other chair. Mr. Watson greeted Mycroft vaguely, then slipped out of the room.

Mycroft’s fingers drummed lightly against the chair, his eyes fixed intently on John’s face. “You’ll be staying here, with your father and your sister,” he began, skipping the small talk. “I will see to it that your financial needs are covered, and relieve any strain upon your father that I am able to.”

John didn’t speak for a moment, contemplating the many things that he wanted answers to, and which ones he was likeliest to actually receive a reply to. “What’s going to happen to Seb?” he settled on.

Mycroft smiled very slightly, as if pleased by John’s compassion. “He has been assigned to the guardianship of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, who you’ve met. He is equipped to handle a trauma victim of Sebastian’s caliber and extremity, and has in fact done so before. It’s a good placement.”

A frown darkened John’s face. “Has Seb spoken to a therapist yet? Has he acknowledged that what he went through was abuse?”

Sadness hedged into Mycroft’s voice, and for a moment John could clearly see the regret in his weary blue eyes. “More than just the physical and emotional abuse he very clearly suffered, Sebastian underwent a deeper kind of mistreatment; through application and withholding of affection, James Moriarty was well on his way to manipulating Seb into the furthest thing from what he was; Moriarty tried to twist him into a monster.” Mycroft paused, watching John closely for his reaction. “He forced Seb to poison Jennifer Wilson.”

John felt his jaw drop open, knew that his face was betraying his shock and terror at that information, and Mycroft shook his head, his hands flexing on the armrests. “From his description to Detective Inspector Lestrade, it was a test of loyalty, and of Moriarty’s control over him. Highly impersonal. There was no reason for that girl to die.”

John frowned, confusion tugging at his mind and distracting him from the tight fist of grief that had closed over his heart at the thought of Seb carrying out such as gruesome task. “But Sher--Sherlock had been so certain that it was a lover,” he said slowly, and to his relief Mycroft did not react to his stuttering over Sherlock’s name.

A dry smile touched the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “There’s always something, when it comes to my brother’s deductions. Not a lover, but more of a...sponsor. Moriarty provided her with money and baubles, simply because he could, and she enjoyed the attention. No doubt it made her very trusting toward Seb, and utterly unsuspicious when he was sent to end her life.”

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head at the entire situation. “And I imagine it wreaked havoc with Seb’s mind, seeing the guardian to whom he was so devoted lavish such intimate attention on a young woman his own age. Moriarty forced him to murder her, I think, just to prove that he was the most ‘loyal’ one of his toys.”

There was no disguising the horror on John’s face, and Mycroft raised a reassuring hand, waving away his fear. “Wilson’s murder is being placed solely on Moriarty, as it should be. Seb won’t face any consequences except his own emotional scars...which will be quite severe enough. I suppose it’s fortunate--in a twisted sense of the word--that he ordered Seb to poison her, rather than some more...hands-on means.”

John shuddered, utterly repulsed by the soulless cruelty of Seb’s dead guardian. “Are we--will we still go to the same school? Is Seb facing any charges at all?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s not yet eighteen, so we were able to protect him quite thoroughly, in legal terms. Moriarty is accountable for several crimes, including Wilson’s murder, and his own death has been recorded as an accident, which occurred while he was assaulting a minor. He is also being posthumously charged with child abuse of his legal ward, which allows Social Services to take on the costs of providing the care and treatment for Sebastian.” His voice softened when he saw the agitation in John’s eyes. “It is the best they can do for him.”

John could only nod, feeling as if all the words, and all of the strength to fight, had been drained out of him.

* * *

When they returned to school the following Monday, there was an air of silent agreement between John and Seb to not speak about everything that had happened unless they had to.

Watching the way John kept himself together, barely there and yet stoically strong, holding onto his sanity by a narrow margin, Seb was conflicted, deciding after an extensive inner battle not to tell John about Sherlock visiting him, or the way he seemed to have “surrendered” his claim to John.

It ate away at him, though, because he could see the grief in John’s eyes, could almost tangibly feel the weight of loneliness and abandonment that lingered over the other boy, and he knew with a pang of frustration that John was merely settling by being with him.

The topic came up once, briefly, as they were sitting outside after school. Like they had during the early days of their friendship, before John had really recognized the symptoms of his abuse, they would remain behind after the others had left. Now, though, it was not because Seb dreaded going home, but because he was required by Social Services to wait at the school for Detective Inspector Lestrade to collect him. John always insisted on waiting with him, and after the first time he had seen Lestrade’s face relax at the sight of him sitting with a friend, Seb didn’t argue.

Leaning against him in the chilly afternoon sunlight one afternoon, John glanced sideways at him, then drew in a tight breath. “How come you never fought him?”

Seb blinked, startled by the directness of the question. A small sound escaped him, almost a whimper in the way it wavered through his lips. “Jim...knew how to balance physical affection with psychological abuse. I was constantly on this edge of...of thinking that he would change, that he’d come around, might even learn to...to really love me back.”

It took effort, but John kept his voice steady, ducking his head against Seb’s shoulder to avoid meeting his eyes when he spoke. “Did you sleep with him?”

A ripple of tension went through Seb, but he did not withdraw his hand, which had been resting loosely on John’s knee beneath the table as they pressed together for warmth. His fingers tightened fractionally as he let out a sigh. “He only ever used sex as a weapon. He would kiss me...like you saw.” Shame colored his voice, and John turned to press a sad, small kiss to his shoulder through all of their layers. Seb pressed on, his voice shaky. “He...owned me through touching. I was so starved for affection.”

He swallowed, talking past a lump in his throat. “We only...we only had sex a few times. Jim knew how to play my mind like a fuckin’ instrument.” He tilted his head back, squinting up at the milky blue sky. “I’m facing it all, don’t worry. Lestrade has been really good to me, so far, and therapy is...it’s helping. Even what I did to Jennifer--” His voice cracked then, and he stopped, seeming overwhelmed by using her first name.

John grabbed his hand, lifting it to press Seb’s fingers against his cheek, just as Seb had when they’d been on his bedroom floor, in pain and afraid. “You don’t have to keep going,” he whispered, and Seb turned to look at him, blue eyes dark and frightened. “I’m here to listen if you need me, but I’m also here regardless of whether you say anything, or not.”

A heartsick smile touched Seb’s mouth. Leaning in, he pressed a light, chaste to John’s lips, breathing out, “Thank you. For everything,” against his skin.

* * *

John’s eighteenth birthday landed on a Saturday, and it passed by quietly, with just a small dinner shared between John and his father and sister.

Monday afternoon after practice found them back beneath their bleachers, with Seb sprawled out beside John smoking a cigarette. Seb had been in turmoil again, tormented by what he could make of Sherlock’s parting words to him at the Social Service office.

“Are you happy?” he abruptly asked John, sitting up to look over at him.

John glanced up from his textbook, and smiled, the expression only a little twisted at the edges. “I will be,” he answered, and the sincere hope in his voice made Seb’s heart fracture. John leaned in, surprising Seb by kissing him, his lips firm and searching.

In his chest, John’s heart fluttered at the familiar flavor of the cigarettes, and deep inside he admitted to himself how badly he still missed Sherlock.

For a moment Seb just let John kiss him, wishing he didn’t feel the weight of it for what it was: one last time. Then he drew back, hating himself as he put a few inches between them. “I can’t let you miss out on a chance for real happiness,” he said, sighing.

John frowned, setting his book aside. “What do you mean?” he asked guardedly.

Seb took another drag of his cigarette, let out a long breath of smoke, then told John what Sherlock had said to him at Social Services. Confusion and a little coolness flickered over John’s face, his eyebrow raising as he heard the message. “Well, I’m glad he was understanding--”

Seb cut him off with a chuckle, the humor a little strained. “There are some loves that nothing in the world can come between,” he said bluntly. “And while I know he’d stand down if you told him to, I’m also quite certain that Sherlock Holmes will never really let go of you...and you’re never really going to be over him.” His smile softened. “You belong together."

John’s voice was terse. “Then he shouldn’t have all but given his blessing--”

Again, Seb interrupted, shaking his head and grabbing John’s hand, the _one last time_ feeling intensifying. “I know that wasn’t why he said it. It was him giving me the choice to tell you, to decide for myself that I was strong enough to encourage you to go back to him. He was giving you and me the chance, together, to agree that this is it for us.”

John had no reply to that, and Seb’s smiled widened, the regret fading from his expression. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. “You can have _your_ impossible love story, John. So go get it. Don’t just settle.”

That put an agonized look on John’s face, but Seb merely laughed, raising the cigarette back to his lips. His eyes were bright when he gazed at John over the filter. “I always knew I was second-place, remember?”

For several seconds John could only stare at him, conflicted. Then he swore softly, stuffing his book in his back and throwing his arms around Seb, who returned the embrace firmly.

Then John grabbed his bag, crawled out from beneath the bleachers, and began to run. Left alone in the shadows, Seb put out his cigarette in the dirt, and laughed softly to himself.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson clearly hadn’t realized that John had moved out, judging by the perfectly normal way that she greeted him when he knocked at 221 Baker Street, teasing him about leaving his keys. He headed upstairs, his steps slowing near the top, heart hammering as he approached the open door to B.

Sherlock was standing by the window, playing his violin. John recognized the piece; it had played on the radio from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen a few times, the melody sweet and romantic and slow.

When John entered, Sherlock looked up and froze, his hands going still on the instrument.

John stepped inside, closing and locking the door before leaning back against it. His bag dropped to the floor at his feet. He rested his arms behind him, palms flat against the door, staring at Sherlock in silence.

Sherlock placed the violin carefully on its stand, then returned to his place by the window, framed in the faint golden light shining through. “Why are you here?” There was no anger or resentment in his voice, merely quiet interest.

Inhaling deeply, John pushed himself away from the door. “Seb...passed on your message.”

That made Sherlock blink in surprise, and then he sighed, his composure breaking slightly as he ran a hand through his hair. “I wondered if he would tell you.”

An edge of irritation entered John’s voice. “Did you mean it as a test?”

Sherlock swallowed, his pale throat flexing and a flicker of regret flashing in his verdigris eyes. “I never wanted to walk away from you in the hospital, that day--I wanted to be there when you woke up. If it weren’t for Seb, I might have been.”

“What do you mean?” John couldn’t keep from interjecting, surprised.

A bittersweet smile touched the older man’s mouth. “I wanted a normal life for you, John, and if that meant being with someone your own age, then...I had to allow that. Selfishly, I wanted to pretend that it was only on you to make that choice, because I knew what you would decide.” There was a brief, pregnant pause in which John shot him a hard look, and Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug, not bothering to apologize for the assumption.

“But I could not bring myself to dismiss Seb’s feelings to completely...especially considering the abuse and neglect he had been suffering. So...I put it in his hands. To decide whether or not he could let you go, and send you home.”

John raised a skeptical eyebrow at his words. “It’s been weeks since this was my home,” he pointed out dryly, and Sherlock gave him a self-deprecating smile.

“I know.” There was another long pause, and then a flash of vulnerability across in his face. “I did miss you, you know.”

A curse slipped from John, and when Sherlock frowned in reprimand, he merely scowled back. “You can’t yank me all over the place like this, Sherlock. You knew what we were getting ourselves into the first time we kissed. If you’d been this unsure, you should never have made that move.”

Sherlock almost chuckled, the sound catching in his throat. “I know,” he murmured weakly. “But to be fair, I have always been the addictive type. Can’t seem to resist.”

Latching onto those words, John looked around, seeming to just notice something. “Are you still smoking?” he asked, inhaling through his nose. “The flat smells cleaner that before.”

Sherlock shrugged, frowning at the floor. “Trying to quit. It isn’t going well, as usual.”

John snorted. “Christ, you really need someone here looking after you, don’t you.” He eyed his former lover critically. “You obviously need to eat more, too.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh, moving around his armchair and dropping into it with the air of a sulky child. “I’ll be fine,” he said tartly.

He clearly was not expecting John to cross the room and lean over him in the chair, planting his hands on the armrests, bringing them face-to-face, only centimeters apart. The old spark had leapt back into John’s stormy blue eyes, and a familiar smirk was settled on his lips. “Bollocks,” he said succinctly, and his grin widened as Sherlock’s gaze dropped unbidden to his lips. “You need me, and you know it.”

Sherlock stared back at him almost haughtily, but there was a glimmer of hope in his pale gaze that sent a thrill through John. “We’ll just come full circle at this rate,” he pointed out, and John laughed.

“You missed my birthday,” he said lightly, and for a moment, the non-sequitur clearly had Sherlock bewildered. “You utter cock,” John added with a smug little smile. “I turned eighteen, and you missed it.”

Comprehension dawned on Sherlock’s face, and the teen laughed, pulling back just a little, leaving a few short inches between them. “It may not be easy, and we’ll still piss plenty of people off, but the bottom line is--I’m legal, you’re a sod, and who better than me to look after your sorry arse.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and John snorted at the implication, shaking his head in mock despair. “I meant making you eat and quit bloody smoking, but sure, I’d like to try topping eventually.” His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “You do owe me, after all the shite you’ve put me through.”

He saw the surge of remorse in Sherlock’s eyes, and he made a soft tsking sound, reaching up to run his fingers along the older man’s jaw, feeling the faint scratch of a five o'clock shadow. “Just...promise you won’t do it again, please?”

Sherlock smiled softly, reaching up to cup John’s hand around his own cheek. “I am sorry I hurt you. I thought I was doing right by you.”

John shrugged. “I know. I forgive you--of course I do. But never again. We’re for good, you hear me? All or nothing.”

“You and me against the world,” Sherlock agreed, chuckling, and tilted his head in invitation, his expression mirroring John’s own from the first night they had kissed.

John grinned at the symbolism, leaning in and pressing a hard kiss against those beautiful bow lips.

* * *

Later that evening Sherlock went to shower, and John was sprawled across their bed, weighing their take-away options, when Sherlock’s mobile rang on the bedside table. “You can answer it,” he heard Sherlock call through the door.

He glanced at the screen and bit his lip. “It’s Mycroft.”

“Go ahead.” Sherlock’s voice held a smile. “There’s not much reason to be coy.”

John was chuckling as he answered. “Hi, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes sounded mildly exasperated, as well as amused. “I was rather expecting that. I’m only phoning because your sister has been calling my office repeatedly to swear at me and demand I find you; you really ought to have texted your father that you weren’t coming back to his house.” His voice softened a little, taking on a more brotherly note that John found a little disconcerting. “Everything’s settled, then?”

John had to shake his head at Harriet’s audacity, and he smiled warmly. “Yeah, we’re fine. I’ll go home for my stuff tomorrow.”

Mycroft huffed dismissively. “I’ll have someone collect them for you. You can stay at Baker Street.”

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and John’s breath caught faintly before he could reply. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he said distractedly, and he heard the older man sigh exaggeratedly before the line clicked. John grinned, tossing the mobile aside, and tugged Sherlock down for a kiss, pushing the towel out of his way.

_June_

The last rugby match of the year fell on a pleasantly warm day. Classes would be done in another week, and with it, secondary school.

John was going away in the fall, to begin his medical training at Sheffield. Then he hoped to return to London and finish his training at St. Bart’s.

Seb was remaining in the city, making use of the resources that Detective Inspector Lestrade and Social Services could provide for him, and though it was hard for the boys to think about parting, they were committed to maintaining their friendship.

Sherlock climbed into the bleachers to watch the match, smiling as he observed John and Seb warming up with the rest of the team. They were talking and laughing together, shoulders rubbing as they prepared for the game, but Sherlock was well past any twinges of envy at seeing them interact.

Every now and then, John would look up from the field, and when he caught sight of Sherlock he grinned, waving one hand happily. At one point, noticing the direction of John’s gaze, Seb looked over as well, and when he spotted Sherlock he smiled at him broadly. Sherlock returned the expression, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

A mother sat down beside him, getting situated before giving him a friendly nod. “Who’re you here for, love?”

A look of peace and pride settled on Sherlock’s face, and he nodded toward John as the younger man jogged onto the field.

“I’m with John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, wow. Okay, so this is, in a way, the end of the tale, my friends. There is one more chapter, meant to offer closure for Seb and a glimpse into the futures of the characters. I considered adding it to this one, but I have a thing about even numbers, so it shall be "chapter 14," though it is in fact just the Epilogue.
> 
> (Also I've been married for a year as of yesterday. :3 )


	14. Epilogue (Four Years Later)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "At peace and in love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for loving on this story, guys. I've really enjoyed this one.

_Hey!_

_I’m so glad the job is going well. Funny, I can actually totally picture you as a bartender. I hope it’s as entertaining as it looks on the telly._

_Happy to hear you’re still close with Greg. He phones Sherlock in on cases now and then, but until we’re back in London it isn’t really more than a hobby. On that note, though, we will be back soon! I’m finishing this semester, and then I’ll be at Bart’s starting in August. :) I’ll make sure we come see you as soon as possible._

_Glad you’re well._

_John_

Seb read over the email, his heart warming. He leaned back in his chair as the bedroom door opened to admit Henry Knight, who paused and smiled when he saw that Seb didn’t have his shoes on yet.

“You’ll be late for work,” he teased lightly, crossing the room to wrap his arms around Seb’s shoulders. His eyes fell on the message on the screen, and he pressed a kiss to the side of Seb’s neck. “Have you told him yet?”

A sigh slipped from Seb, and he reached up, wrapping his hands around Henry’s biceps. “No, but not for the reasons you’re probably thinking.” Turning his head, he pressed a smiling kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. “We don’t email very often. I told him when you asked me out the first time, but he got accepted for a fellowship right after, and it didn’t come back up.”

He stood, slipping free from Henry’s hold to dig up his work shoes. “They’ll be back in London soon enough. We could see them together, maybe, tell them in person?”

There was an edge of hesitation in his voice toward the end, and Henry smiled to himself, recognizing the flicker of old insecurity rising again. Seb was much stronger now than he had been when everything had happened to him, almost four years ago, but he still had a long way to go. Sometimes, even though he was twenty-two by now, Henry could still see the haunted teenager who had survived so much abuse, and didn’t trust himself to be enough for anyone.

He stepped closer, rubbing his hand reassuringly up Seb’s back and over his neck, knowing the heat of his touch would soothe Seb out of the skittish mood he was bordering on falling into. “It’s fine,” he said firmly, tugging the other man in for a loving kiss. “You know I understand.”

Seb smiled back gratefully, grabbing his jacket and reaching over to close his laptop before holding the door. “Shall we?”

They parted ways at the bar where Seb worked, which was where they had reunited by happy accident two years before. Pulling chairs off of the tables in preparation for the dinner rush, Seb couldn’t help smiling to himself, remembering the night Henry had stepped back into his life.

He had stayed in central London, close to Greg Lestrade and Scotland Yard, because during the months following the end of secondary they had become his unofficial family. Online programs had allowed him to work through a degree in Sociology while he did part-time work at the precinct, and then he had stumbled onto this job at the pub, and had found he liked it much more than he would have expected.

Meanwhile, he’d stayed in close contact with Molly Hooper and John, both; Molly had kept their entire group of friends fairly well-connected, even when she’d gone away briefly for an academic program in America. John had also felt far away, pursuing his medical degree and living with Sherlock in a flat they’d rented closer to Sheffield.

But he had focused on working, and on rebuilding himself. Therapy had been a trial to get through, and he still saw the doctor once a month, even years later. But long before the night when Henry had strolled into the pub, then called out his name in surprise, Seb had found himself feeling fully human again for the first time that he could remember.

He had been pleased to reunite with Henry, and to his immense pleasure his old friend came by regularly, chatting with him and getting to know his coworkers, showing a much stronger and more confident nature than the shy, diligent youth Seb remembered. Henry had grown into a calm, assertive, attractive young adult, and Seb had been easily charmed by him. He was a journalist now, and many a night found him seated at the bar, going over his notes and laughing and joking with Seb and his night-shift partner, Mary.

At first, Seb had assumed that Mary was the reason for Henry’s constant visits. He knew that Henry had fancied Molly during their school years, and didn’t see any cause to believe his orientation had changed.

He could still remember the night that changed, walking out of the back and seeing Henry splutter and blush at something Mary had said, laughing and nodding as he’d answered. Mary had glanced up at Seb and grinned, broadly, and whatever she’d said next had Henry glancing over at him as if embarrassed, but smiling as well.

When Seb had joined them, Mary had clapped him on the shoulder and said with a wink, “I guess all the best ones are on your team, eh?”

When he’d looked at her in confusion, Henry had interjected, laughing, and countered, “No, Mare, I said my horizons got expanded, not flipped. I still date women, I just...got a little more flexible.”

As Seb had stared at them in perplexity, Mary had tsked, about to respond when a customer had called for her attention. Once she had walked away, Henry chuckled apologetically. “Sorry. She was questioning your report about my dating preferences back in school, considering that I come here flirting with you all the time.”

That had shocked Seb sufficiently enough that Henry had raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry--was that way out of line? It’s just that--”

“Henry,” Seb had interrupted him, leaning on the counter and smiling, even though his heart had been pounding and he thought he might pass out from the utter normalcy of this moment, something he had never experienced when it came to romance. “Would you like to get coffee with me tomorrow?”

And that was that. They had dated casually, Seb finding himself more and more swept away by how much a few years of college had brought Henry out of his shell. He was social and outgoing, yet just as patient and sweet as he’d been as a teenager, always meeting Seb halfway, never challenging him in moments of weakness, supporting and encouraging him through therapy and flashbacks and, when their relationship went further and Seb began sleeping over, Henry was there through the night terrors, too.

And when they had spoken about John Watson, and the feelings that Seb had learned to simply put to rest, forgotten at the back of his heart, Henry was full of love and understanding there, as well, giving Seb genuine hope that for once in his life, his love would not be unrequited or insufficient.

Mary grinned as he walked in now, nodding at something over his shoulder. “You’ve got a visitor, love.”

Seb looked back, confused, and then broke into a laugh when he spied the willowy brunette in one of the booths, who’d leapt up grinning at the sight of him. “Molly!” He turned just in time as she ran at him, catching her easily and lifting her off of her feet in a tight hug. “What’re you doing here? How long are you around?”

“Oh, Seb, it’s amazing to see you--you look fantastic,” she laughed breathlessly, stepping back to look him over. “I mean, wow. You’re glowing.” When he snorted, she blushed faintly, waving her hand. “Shush. Oh, and I’m--well, here indefinitely,” she said, her grin out of control. “I applied to work in the morgue at Bart’s, and I was accepted!”

Seb’s smile widened and he offered a high five, which she returned happily. “Molly, that’s amazing. I’m glad you’re back, and that I’ll get to see you.”

She nodded, smiling in thanks as Mary handed her a beer. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m actually--I was here last night, and I heard Mary mention your name, and when I realized it was you--” She bit her lip, looking sheepish. “I might’ve called people and asked about us having a meet-up? I thought it would be nice to be all together again. Maybe tomorrow night, if you’re off?”

Seb nodded, heart warmed by the familiar concern in her eyes, worried she’d overstepped. “That would be amazing. We can just meet here, Mary would enjoy it, too. Who’s coming?”

Molly giggled. “Actually, almost everyone. I mean, most of them don’t _live_ in London anymore, but it’s easy enough to come in. So...yeah, I think actually everyone is coming. Except Anderson. He’s in France, or something.”

“Huh.” Seb raised an eyebrow at that. “And Sally?”

“That’s over,” Molly said, chuckling when he rolled his eyes at that predictable outcome. “She’s, uh, actually dating Vic now.”

“No way.” Seb laughed, thinking back to Trevor’s lovesick puppy eyes. “Well, he must be quite pleased.”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know, I have a suspicion that she’s still dating Anderson on the side. But he’s married now, so I hope I’m wrong.”

Then her face brightened, and he jabbed a finger at him accusingly. “Oh! And someone’s been holding out about his love life, why didn’t you email me, or call, about Henry?”

Seb blushed, laughing shyly as he ducked behind the bar to start work. Molly slid onto a stool, looking at him expectantly. “Yeah, that’s...that’s been going on two years, now. It’s good.”

“Yeah?” Her smile softened. “I’m glad. Wouldn’t have predicted it, though, I gotta say.”

Seb snorted, wiping off a wine glass. “No, me neither. We just...clicked, when we ran into each other again. He’s changed a lot, he’s...sort of a badass, now.”

Molly giggled. “Got a type, haven’t you?”

He scowled playfully, flicking his rag at her. “Don’t say that near him, he’s still confused as hell as to why I love him.”

Her eyes brightened. “Love, huh?”

Seb realized what he’d said, and smiled sheepishly, looking down. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

Molly’s hand reached out, sliding around his in a gentle grip. “I’m so glad.” She straightened up, checking her mobile and sliding to her feet. “Well, look, I’ve gotta dash, but tomorrow night? What time shall I text everyone?”

“Make it eight, give ‘em all time in case they’re coming off work.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat to make sure his voice was steady. “Did you call John?”

Molly paused, glancing at him with a knowing look. “I did. He said they’d make it, or at least he would.” Her mouth quirked downward. “Will that be okay?”

Seb rolled his eyes, giving her a cheerful smile. “Of course, Mol. I just haven’t seen him in four years, so it’s gonna be--strange.”

She nodded, taking his word. “Well, my love to Henry. See you both tomorrow.”

When Seb got home that night, Henry was in the kitchen, washing dishes. Seeing him there--tattered jeans and a hole-filled t-shirt, his hair mussed, so domestic and strong and somehow, inexplicably, all Seb’s--he felt his throat close up.

Henry glanced over his shoulder, smiling when he saw him hovering there. “You okay?” he asked, turning around. “Did Molly find you?”

“Oh, you bastard,” Seb laughed, crossing to kiss him once, lightly. “Did you tell her to surprise me?”

“Mhmm.” Henry was grinning unrepentantly. “Thought she’d make you smile.” His fingers hooked in Seb’s belt loops, tugging their hips together, and Seb’s breath hitched. “She ask you about tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little faintly, and his boyfriend’s smirk widened at his distraction. “Are we good to go?”

“Oh, yeah,” Henry murmured, then captured his mouth in a searing kiss.

These were the moments Seb loved the most, when he didn’t have to appear fragile or broken for Henry to know what he needed most. There didn’t have to be any visible damage; he simply _needed_ , same as he always did and always would, and Henry saw that, and took over for him. Took care of him.

Henry walked him backwards into the living room, guiding him onto the sofa and sliding his shirt off of his torso. There were scars there, long-healed marks from so many long-forgotten cruelties--pale white circles where cigarettes had burned him, faint stripes where ropes had restrained and belts had struck, the odd tender point where bones had healed incorrectly and could be felt, jutting edges in wrong places.

In the past, Henry had mapped all of these out, stroking and cataloguing and learning, his soft voice and gentle kisses coaxing Seb back out of the nightmares, convincing him that this was okay, that he was safe, and that he did not have to hide his marks. They did not define him, and Henry had never been repulsed by them.

Seb shivered as the cool air of their flat caressed his skin, reaching for Henry instinctively. He came willingly, sliding his arms around Seb as he sank onto the sofa, cradling his body close. Henry had grown quite a bit at the end of his teens, gaining a few inches on Seb. His shoulders had broadened as well, and when he held Seb, the smaller man was highly aware of the calm strength and power that surrounded him.

His knees fell around Henry’s thighs so that he was straddling him, and he ducked down to nuzzle into Henry’s throat as his hands stroked warmly down Seb’s back and over his hips, fingers dipping teasingly beneath the waistline of his work jeans.

“You want me to touch you?” On nights like this, Henry was something rich and primal, his voice firm but full of kindness and love, his eyes tracking every twitch and quiver of Seb’s body and identifying exactly what he craved.

“Yes, please,” he whispered, arching to push his hips back into the probing contact of Henry’s fingers. “Need you.”

This was what he loved; when Henry was this quiet, unshakeable rock, this source of stability and calm, certain of himself and certain of what Seb needed. He undid Seb’s jeans with gentle fingers, slipping the denim off his hips and down to catch around his thighs. Seb moaned softly, pushing himself up to let Henry push his underwear aside as well, and he was rewarded with a pleased hum that vibrated through Henry’s lips and into his skin as Henry kissed his shoulder, teeth pressing down lightly.

One of Henry’s hands closed around his cock, and he jolted slightly, the surge of pleasure startling him. The strokes were light and fast, not enough to push him over, and his hands scrabbled helplessly at Henry’s arms, wanting more.

“Hands behind you, love.” _Oh, God_ , how he loved it when Henry slipped into this zone with him, slipped into the dominant role and took away his fears and insecurities. He folded his hands behind his back, eyes closing as Henry supported him with one arm, continuing to tease him with the other.

“What do you want?” Henry’s voice was so soft, so kind, yet there was an undercurrent of steel. He was exactly what Seb had always needed, a leader and a lover.

Seb tilted his head, tucking his face into Henry’s neck. “Want to come for you,” he breathed against the skin. He felt Henry’s smile when his lips touched Seb’s hair, and it made him feel strong. His hips arched up, pushing his cock into Henry’s hand. “Please.”

Henry nodded against his cheek, faint stubble rubbing comfortingly over his skin. “Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

His hand tightened and sped up, the motion fast and demanding, and Seb cried out his name softly as he surrendered to it, letting his lover carry him through the ripples of pleasure. When he was finished, Henry gently prompted him to stand, half-leading and half-supporting his weight as they wandered to their room.

Letting him sink down on the bed, Henry disappeared for a moment, then returned with a damp cloth to clean them up. Sleepily Seb reached for him. “You need--?”

“Nah.” Henry leaned down, kissing his lips gently. “Sleep, babe. I’m going to finish my article and then come back to bed.” He smiled, brushing the unruly blonde hair back from Seb’s forehead as he drifted off with a small nod, contentment written across his face.

* * *

Molly’s reunion began with Sarah Sawyer, Sally and Victor, and Henry and Seb. It was strange at first, so many lives that hadn’t been intertwined for years suddenly colliding and overlapping as everyone got caught up. Seb listened to Vic talk about working as a rugby coach, and hid his surprise behind cheerful congratulations when Sally said she was looking into police work. Sarah was running a walk-in clinic in the city, where she had actually offered John a job, but he’d already accepted his place at Bart’s.

“Is he coming, by the way?” Sarah asked Molly, giving Seb a very quick glance. He sighed, taking a long sip of his beer. If Anderson somehow turned up, maybe he and Sally could share the misery of all the sidelong glances over long-ago loves.

Molly nodded, and was just about to speak when her face lit up, and she waved at someone by the door.

“Hey, everyone.”

John had aged well; he had grown into all of the muscle and bulk that his teenage figure had promised. His shoulders were broader, his face leaner, and when he smiled as he approached the table, his eyes still had the same world-wise look they always had--but now it fit him, looking more in-place on a man in his twenties than it had on an adolescent boy.

He claimed the empty seat on Molly’s other side, putting him opposite Seb and Henry. It was almost like the separation had merely been for a summer between school years, the way everyone rushed to resume talking, exchanging stories and current life updates, and Seb felt himself relax as he watched John listen to their friends, nodding and laughing along with them.

When John looked directly at him, after several minutes, it seemed as if the past four years just fell into place, and it felt to Seb, for a just a heartbeat, that this was the final piece of the puzzle he hadn’t realized he was trying to solve. Seeing John well and happy, grown into the powerful man that Seb had always seen him as, answered the final question that had lingered in his heart, keeping him from letting go of the dark times in which they had first met.

John smiled back at him, and there was something affirming in his expression, as if he had seen it too, and was silently agreeing with Seb’s epiphany. “So, how are you two doing? It’s been two years now, hasn’t it?”

Henry turned his attention away from Vic and Sally, leaning over and dropping one arm comfortably onto the back of Seb’s chair to listen. It was Seb who answered, however, feeling his entire body relax under the warmth of Henry’s fingers trailing over his shoulder. “Yeah, two years last month,” he confirmed, turning his face and grinning when Henry planted a quick kiss on his lips.

He knew that he blushed at the gesture of affection, but he ignored the heat in his cheeks, continuing, “Actually--I didn’t email you about it because I’d hoped we’d see you in person eventually, but--we got ourselves a place. We moved in together, about two weeks ago.”

He felt Henry’s hand squeeze gently, thanking him for his courage, and Seb’s whole body warmed with love for his boyfriend.

John’s eyes softened, true happiness in their blue depths. “That is wonderful! I’m so glad it’s going well.” When Sally called Seb’s name, distracting him, John continued to gaze at him, taking in the obvious signs of health and healing in his body language, and the way he tilted into Henry un-self-consciously, at peace and in love.

After the third round of beers was served, Henry slipped out of his chair, ducking around the table to sit beside John. His eyes were bright. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked softly, and John raised his eyebrows, nodding with a questioning look.

Glancing over to make sure that the others still had Seb occupied, Henry reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black box. Holding it below the level of the table, he cracked the lid, showing John the simple silver band inside.

“It’s engraved with our initials on the inside,” he murmured, keeping an eye on Seb’s turned-away profile. “I’m planning on asking him tomorrow,” he admitted, a silly smile breaking across his face.

John had to swallow a delighted laugh to avoid drawing Seb’s attention, but he didn’t bother hiding his grin, clapping a hand on Henry’s shoulder in hearty approval. “Henry, that is fantastic. I am so thrilled for you.”

Seb’s voice interrupted them as he swung back to face them, arching an eyebrow at their proximity. “What’re you two smirking about?” he asked, his posture utterly relaxed, eyes glowing with contentment.

John chuckled, feeling the shuffle as Henry returned the ring to his pocket, and leaned an elbow on the table to take another drink. “Just chatting about the future,” he said, beaming.

The conversation wound on, with questions for John about his years at Sheffield and his goals for working at St. Bart’s, and when someone referenced a sibling working in medicine, Molly’s eyes widened, and she looked over at John, looking adorably apologetic that she hadn’t remembered his struggles four years earlier. “Oh! How is your family?”

He gave her a grateful smile, appreciating the courtesy. “Never better. My father has really gotten back into work, and he’s more involved in his neighborhood; he’s doing alright on his own. My sister got cleaned up from the booze, and her girlfriend took her back--they’re got a place of their own, too, and a dog. I see them every few weeks.”

Seb glanced down his hand, folded comfortably in Henry’s, and smiled as he looked back up at John. “Everything still as it was, at home?”

John’s expression softened, his blue eyes lightening with pleasure as he thought about his own lover, who was currently working on a makeshift contract with Greg Lestrade before he could join them at the pub. “Yeah, I’m still living at Baker Street with Sherlock. And we’re quite stupidly in love.”

The smile he shared with Seb, as the others whistled teasingly, was blinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope that didn't disappoint anyone. I promise Henry was a very, very carefully chosen candidate for his role. I felt that he was exactly the halfway point I needed between Seb's former love interests: Jim's authority and control, with John's sweetness and kindness.
> 
> I hope to see you guys for "Like the Northern Light!"


End file.
